Michael Diebert



Winter: Canon, Georgia

Coat buttoned to my chin,
shoulders squared against considerable wind.
In the park, I walk the loop:
monkey bars, multicolored rocking horse,
headstone for the old grade school,
sunken echo of a bell.
The empty caboose rusts on the rusting tracks.
Behind the treeline, the graveyard,
a basketball goal without a net,
yards of broken furniture, swaybacked porches.
The dollar store and the lone gas mart
cling to their plots like spinsters.
Rarely have I seen another parked car,
only the occasional wandering soul.

Yet there are stirrings.  The sun
is burning through the cloud-mask.
A bird flits into the frame
and alights on a weather vane.  
The grass has been trimmed within an inch of the earth.
Gardener, groundskeeper, mystery architect
of the spirit, are you here?  
I thank you.
I have failed anew
to remove myself from the need to speak.




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