At Thomas Merton’s Grave

We can never be with loss too long. Behind the warped door that sticks, the wood thrush calls to the monks, pausing upon the stone crucifix, singing: “I am marvelous alone!” Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield: rows of marrow and bone undone. The horizon’s flashing fastens tight, sealing the blue hills with vermilion. Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green. The cemetery expands its borders— little milky crosses grow like teeth. How kind time is, altering space so nothing stays wrong; and light, more new light, always arrives.