Sonnet CLXXXVI

The morning, groggy grey and solemn still,
had hushed the breeze, which wheezed so peevishly.
The churning of the bus was blasphemy
to quiet dawn, reflected in the hills.
The world was blur beyond the window sill,
perched silently above my leather seat
inside that lurid bus. I saw the trees,
the houses far away, a mill,
and then the cemetery by the church,
a little patch of names on tombstone squares.
My memory, by all those names incurred,
remembered all those names from everywhere,
the names of streets named after those who were,
an everlasting farmer’s tribute there.