A foggy, cold, November morning. Lincoln spoke,
following a 2-hour oratory with two minutes
because he knew “we can not dedicate —
we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow” ground
covered, uncovered by grass and snow. Remembered.
Church bells on this late July afternoon
when I stop the lawn mower engine.
The grass is August-dry, yellow-green and bored
with growing, and the katydids stop singing.
As it was in the beginning, now.