I spend a lot of time at country cemetaries. As a matter of fact, I was just out yesterday looking at country cemetaries around the county. And this is something I noticed a long time ago …

There Is Always a Little Wind

There is always a little wind
in a country cemetary,
even on days when the air stands
still as a barn in the fields.

You can see the old cedars,
stringy and tough as maiden aunts,
taking the little gusts of wind
in their aprons like sheaves of wheat,

and hear above you the warm
and regular sweep of wheat being cut
and gathered, the wagons creaking,
the young men breathing at their work.