Woodsmoke. Wayne Caldwell

him yonder with the gates of heaven opening 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.

      Long Tom

      Back when Papa built this house

      He bought a Sears and Roebuck Long Tom

      Twelve-gauge goose gun.

      Forty-one-inch barrel, all the recoil pad

      A solid walnut stock affords.

      It still hangs by the front door,

      Loaded with number two. It ain’t never

      Killed nothing ’cept squirrels

      And rabbits and mistletoe

      But the way this world’s a-going

      It might someday kill a thief.

      It’s real accurate

      Fifty yards out or more.

      Closer in, it don’t have to be.