A prose poem of serendipitous discovery

Photo by Gavin Allanwood on Unsplash

The neglected cemetery half-hidden by tall grass, discovered
on an aimless walk along a country road that dead-ends at wood’s edge.

Discovered like a basketed foundling deposited on a door stoop,
prompting an overall reckoning with everything you thought you knew.

Headstones tilt at half-mast, wearied by unending rest,
ground down by thick-aired silence disrupted only by the occasional

crunch of tires on loose gravel, the snow plow’s scrape,
or the crying geese winging overhead.

Coming upon this graveyard and the splinters of an iron-worked enclosure
rusted to the color of deep caramel unlocks a joy so deep,

this fresh birth of possibilities too deep for language to pin down.

The geese fly overhead, unaware.

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A writer risks losing friends and, dare I say, admirers, when she tiptoes into political speech. I’m taking that risk here because I’m committed to honesty in what I choose to express on this platform. As my recent work suggests, I do not live or work in a vacuum; I cannot help but be affected by the state of the nation I live in and was born into. I cannot write “pretty” when I don’t feel that way. Writers are expected to offer hope; that’s part of the aesthetic bargain. And sometimes I do. But not always. And isn’t that just like life? Up, down, sideways — we respond to whatever comes our way.

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Amy L. Bernstein

Amy L. Bernstein

I write stories that let you feel and make you think. Fiction, essays, poems. Whatever the moment — or zeitgeist — requires. More at https://amywrites.live.