Read an Excerpt
“This House”
My father built this stout old place in 1914.
We lived in a tarpaper shack while he worked
On it. Movin day was like comin to a castle.
I was eight. I’m comfortable here yet.
Next move? Carry me out in a casket.
Papa was a scrounger—windows came from
A church they razed down at Luther, and its front step
Became the granite mantel over our fireplace.
Always was a comfortable house,
It sighs and creaks like it has opinions.
Me and Birdie remodeled in the fifties, put in
Pine panelin, central heat I’m too tight to use,
A new bathroom. Only thing I regret is coverin
White clapboard with green asbestos shingles.
Birdie wanted it to look modern. I’d take em off,
But asbestos lung ain’t a thing I’d care to die of.
I love watchin Birdie’s flowers bloom,
Tulips and yellowbells, japonica and lilacs,
Clematis and iris, snowballs and peony roses.
I keep ‘em up because of her, and, besides,
I’d almost as soon raise tulips as taters.
You can’t eat flowers, but they sure dress up a table.
The masterest thing about this fine old place?
From the front porch you spy Mount Pisgah,
And don’t see a neighbor in any direction.
Knock on wood, Lord willin, it’ll stay that way.
"Olen Mills"
There’s a faded picture in the front room
Of me and Birdie back when I went to church
All posed up for that squirrely travelin man
A-tryin to catch her pretty and me peart.
She always took a good picture
But he had a job of work to do on me.
Mr and Mrs Olen Mills, at your service.
“Burying Ground”
It’s mighty quiet on the side of the hill.
A pretty place, too, to lay down facin east
Against that trumpet blast they talk about
In the Revelations. I get up here ever now and again,
To tidy up, tend to plants, say howdy to Birdie.
Sometimes, like today, I just set a spell and think.
People don’t hardly have family buryin grounds anymore.
It’s a shame, for there you see where you come from—
As well as where you’re bound. Dust to dust, the Book says.
Birdie’s people started plantin here when her great-grandpa died.
That’s him yonder with the gates of heaven openin up
Atop his marble column. What I hear, he likely busted other gates
Wide open, but that’s not mine to judge. There’s all kind of tomb rocks,
From store-bought stones with Gone but not Forgotten,
To square rectangles with hand-chiseled names and dates
But no room (or maybe patience) for words of remembrance,
To moss- and lichen-covered fieldstones
Under which lie stillbirths and babies lived a day or two.
Birdie and me had one of them, she called her Sarah,
But the young’un never even cried.
She’s buried way over yonder where it’s as quiet as she was
So she can listen to the birds in peace,
And she’s got the best view of Pisgah a gal could want.
I planted that butterfly bush next to Birdie cause she loved ‘em,
And I put in that lilac close to Sarah. Birdie, bless her,
Planted March flowers on our girl’s grave
So early spring I come up here for yellow comfort.
I thin and replant ever few years—Birdie’s circled by
The children of Sarah’s first flowers. She’d like that.
One of these days they’ll lay me down beside her
Forever to sleep. By then, I’m sure, I’ll need the rest.