THERE IS ALWAYS A LITTLE WIND

There is always a little wind

in a country cemetery,

even on days when the air stands

still as a barn in the fields.

You can see the old cedars,

stringy and tough as maiden aunts,

taking the little gusts of wind

in their aprons like sheaves of wheat,

and hear above you the warm

and regular sweep of wheat being cut

and gathered, the wagons creaking,

the young men breathing at their work.