Mean Soil

Foe of the plough and trowel,
Westernport’s inarable hillsides
of piedmont sand starve all but
crabgrass of their nutrients.

Only sparse scrub survives, and
below, bodies of the faithful
do not rise even after
three or three thousand days.

We could not grow vegetables
or yet the stuff of wine here.
We surely cannot restore the dead
from stasis in this mean soil.

Here is a sandstone and marble
necropolis of non-dwellings,
a garden graveyard replete
with statuary and muscled angels.

Philos Cemetery, hero boneyard…
my grandfather and eight
great uncles were warriors,
in the mud, waves and clouds.

My people, the Caves — a multitude
of Caves, greats and great-greats
are here — within an apple toss
of wives, sons, and daughters.

Should I choose, with wife
(and wicker basket) in hand,
I picnic by remains of Caves
I ate and drank with years past.