Faye Sizemore


Above on the hill rise winter bare trees
standing like prophets of old
fallen from Grace
gnarled branches heavenward… reaching
lamenting and beseeching…

Beneath their vigil is an old cemetery
family plots with crumbled stones
standing cold and solitary…
some names can still be read
but not the one that interests me
nothing about it has ever been said
not a letter or a date can I see
It is off by the hedge row side
Far away from the other graves
Off to itself… so alone it does abide
its mystery my curiosity does chide
Was this a families black sheep
Was it a wayfarer… unknown…
who died beside the street
Perhaps a daughter or son
fallen in shame
and buried alone
treated as an unknown
I like to think it’s
the grave of a soldier
because someone
held soldiers dear
The stones still standing
are of eighteen hundreds vintage
and carved by a southern hand
Perhaps it’s a Northern soldier
lost forever in Dixieland…

Above on the hill
stand winter bare trees
gnarled branches reaching
heavenward… beseeching…
like prophets of old
fallen from Grace
lonely in this place…