Sunrise hidden by pines and cedars on the east
side of his house where he later saw a red
flame of it glaring through the cedars, not like sunrise
but like a forest fire. From the window of his front room
the sun shone silently with solemn power through
the pine branches.
The smoke followed the tracks, close by, and rose
toward the skies like the prayers of the passengers
who prayed the prayers of pilgrims in the wilderness.
Close by a grave would wait in the lay cemetery of Our
Lady of Gethsemane, a place of Peace and Paradox.
Farther north is the Ohio river where my great uncle's blood
would mingle with the flowing river meandering with no
rhyme nor reason to yet another river. Like the blood of the Father
passed to the Son. There seems to be no point of rest,
yet by a river of mercy each family member may be washed
clean.
