August 5.14
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Observed, in Passing
for each, and all of us
I drive past the cemetery, high noon
a late-summer day, bright blue sky.
Crisp north air, like September
ruffles the square red funeral tent,
fills the green maple trees,
flutters the high striped flag on the pole.
Men in black suits and women
in dark dresses stand around
the rectangular shadow, cut
into the hard clay. The pile
of red dirt is covered with green carpet.
The extravagant box is shrouded
with large bouquets.
A man in a robe is standing, facing
the people, holding a book,
saying some words.
Nearby, the arms of a tall white statue
reach out, the fingers on both hands
broken off.
On the statue’s stained head, a sparrow
perches, singing.
A few crows fly across the open field,
long rows of artificial flowers.
The line of parked cars sparkles in the sun.
In the distance, high blue mountains
stand along the horizon.
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–Quilla
Summer Evening Lament
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Summer Evening Lament
In memory of David (“Joby”)
A dear one gone from us,
his spirit risen like a bird, flown.
Finally, heat and light go up—
the long day’s sun-baked stones.
Faintly, Navaho flute notes
float upward, into the pyre
of sunset clouds,
these lost threads of Pinon smoke
find deep shrouds of summer sky.
Our keen hearts hone, and listen:
just a slight dry breeze
stirs the tall grass stems,
the silent, summer-heavy leaves.
Cicadas keep that incessant wild
droning, some ancient yearning sorrow—
our quiet grief, screaming in the trees.
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–Quilla
October Night
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October Night
Strong winds from the south
bend the night trees, tearing down
summer’s last leaves,
jangling the rusted chimes.
The closed windows groan
with long gusts, go silent, groan again
all the more, as if grieving in the dark
for some dear presence, gone.
Wakened by the wind’s low song
I go downstairs to read. And listen long
to the autumn night:
The rooms are quiet now, except
the interlocking clock-wheels clicking,
turning toward some distant dawn.
Beyond the walls, great trees howl
strong gusts from the south
—a storm approaches from the Gulf.
Beside me, a small grey moth
flutters round the yellow lamp
making large shadows, the silent walls.
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–Quilla
Ruach 333, by Quilla 