A poem in memoriam for Memorial Day, by one of the WWI poets. I had all the time in the world to come up with material yesterday, and failed. I got to work this early May morn with nothing. But I read a NYTimes article that focused on a difficult patient in psychotherapy, and how his obsession with poetry kept him afloat during some difficult times. The article ended on a sad note, too, with the patient dying unnoticed by the residential center staff–but the conversations patient and doctor had created, and their relationship around poetry, pushed her to do something novel in the days after his death: she wrote a poem.
This is not that poem, but a simple, gnomic poem about death and spring. -ed.
THE CHERRY TREES
The cherry trees bend over and are shedding
On the old road where all that passed are dead,
Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding,
This early May morn when none are there to wed.