Blue Tent
The blue tent against barren trees,
White stones dot the hill in the soft breeze.
Hearse will come soon,
Plant the shell in the tomb.
Quietness in moments wait,
Processions come and go for this date.
Always ends the same,
Casket our body reclaims.
Dirt tossed with hollow echo,
Each a gentle blow.
Soft dirt on a Winter's day,
Piled freshly on a grave.
About the Author: Brian Bucks lives on a small horse ranch in Western Nebraska and is a husband, father, electrical engineer, and poet.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Blue Tent
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