Mar 06
Harriet Street (Frost)
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Harriet Street, by Carol Frost (1948-)
The fadedness of stone
markers shows the wear
of weather. And here,
long life near a yard of bone.
She’s naked and weeds
her garden, and seems to stare at nothing.
The hot winds swings
its sharpened sickle where dark deeds
jumble with good, and begun
things end. The wing a vandal
lopped off from a stone angel
props itself on her porch in the sun.
This bears deep looking into,
all the appearances of madness
and death, or is it just coincidence,
the ancient crone, not dressed, the few
artifacts of grief
strewn on Harriet Street
across from the cemetery? In this heat
perfect connections of belief
come easily. But look.
All her dresses blow
on a clothesline. She may not bow
to earth from burdens, but to pluck
what spasms of flowers
and gems there are,
most sweet, most stolen, where
near to the living, graves are.