Poems by Patricia Keough Wilson
In Washington County ~ 6.26.14
The rain began in mid-afternoon,
falling softly, steadily at first,
changing tempo like a Beethoven Symphony,
painting the terrain of green more vividly;
trees, grass, bushes, striking against
the flag, flapping red, white and blue,
breaking the greenness and the hazy blue sky.
Rain running, pooling at roadside edges,
frogs darting near death by hissing car tires;
wet roads snaking round curves,
over hills, past grazing cows,
rolling over and by history.
Fields where battles waged
to win independence in
the Revolutionary War.
Small signs at the road’s edge
no longer stand soldier straight;
but are at slight angles
still with faded words
announce the story,
the who, what and where of
the founding of this nation.
Cemeteries in Washington County,
in New York State feature leaning,
tilted and straight pale gray tombstones,
where names have faded
over bones crumbled to brittle chalk dust,
and the red blood long soaked into soil.
Such serious thoughts washed away
as the rain fell into the night,
hatching frogs into choruses
of joy and froggy pleasure.
In the morning, clouds puffed and wispy
moved gently across a perfect summer blue sky.
No sound of frog chorus as birds warbled welcome.
And the bits of bones lay underground,
untouched by rain or world events,
unaware of time or weather.