About the dead having available to them
all breeds of knowledge,
some pure, others wicked, especially what is
future, and the history that remains
once the waters recede, revealing the land
that couldn’t reject or contain it, and the land
that is not new, is indigo, is ancient, lived
as all the trees that fit and clothe it are lived,
simple pine, oak, grand magnolia, he said
they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences:
sometimes a boy will slip
from his climbing, drown but the myth knows why,
sometimes a boy will swing with the leaves.
A brief morning stop in Bonaventure Cemetery was part of a April, 2019, weekend visit to Savannah, Georgia —just enough time for me to appreciate the cemetery’s haunting atmosphere (constructed on the grounds of an older plantation); also a sense of hope within a contained space full of loss. I include a few images from elsewhere in Savannah as well.