I walk the woods with daddy,
holding baskets of fallen figs;
gathered from the ground.
we compete with hummingbirds,
sometimes geese, for their sweetness.
Also dad tells of aunt Lelia,
taken to California
in a wood wagon pulled by horses.
She went with her father;
having grieved her mother,
in the year of nineteen nine.
We walk through a field of carved stone;
the name Lelia is sometimes seen;
while geese ascend the northern sky
mysterious in their eternal path.
Our path here turns quiet;
i no longer long for things far away;
but, maybe next year’s figs;
another walk with dad.
…Thanks also for her gracious life
for songs sung in remembrance and celebration
by kin and friends returned to stand and weep and speak
to say the truth she became
Thanks for sunlight down from a western sky
and for shadows from limb and leaf
for a wicker bed that became a place of prayer
for the memory of fourth grade teachers
Thanks that life can be lived in imperfect exclusion
of electronic sound