The following poems and passage are from November 2, 2009. A friend, not a close friend, but nevertheless a friend, had recently died from suicide. The Potter’s Field is next to Forest Lawn Cemetery, where Elliot is buried.
Fall
Steam from breath
Last Goldenrod
Burnt orange, crimson, ochre
Black shrouded wild turkeys gathered amongst the graves.
Morning or Mourning
Passing the small corral on the Mormon Bridge Road, I saw steam coming from the horses’ nostrils. I rounded the corner at the graveyard and saw a last stem of goldenrod glowing like the leaves of the silver maples. Each plant was giving in to winter’s death. The red, orange, and yellow of the trees were beginning to drain into brown as leaves drifted aimlessly in the breeze.
The plants spoke of fall and the temporary halt of life. A gang of turkey spoke of death more permanent. They gathered in The Potter’s Field—mourners in their shawls of black feathers. They murmured to each other softly of those beneath the weathered stones, more so for those with no stone at all.
Plants sing their dirge so often and leave with bursts of light. We sing less often, but with so much more sorrow.
The Potter’s Field
Potter’s Field
Open Sunrise to Sunset
No visitors ever come during these hours.
But the turkeys do
Black feather dresses
Crimson necks
They come to dwell with the unwanted.
