[KilgoreTrout]

Labor Day

Bronze blades of Gethsemane’s grasses
Lay siege to sites erstwhile honored,
Oft remembered, but now forgotten.
I comb the mottled hill for yours –
Obscured by summer’s graying whiskers –
And stoop, dumbfounded by memory.
The site untended swells soil underfoot
As duty drives hands into tangled turf,
Tearing away tufts of encircling sod.
A glance, and greener grass encroaches.
Earth, clutching them close to her breast,
Cradles names plotted at sorrow’s behest.

I labor this day in spite of time
For this one’s name is akin to mine.