CRICKETS IN THE GRAVE FLOWERS

by James. G. Goode

When an old man dies,
A library burns to the ground…”
Sometime, somewhere,
Someone repeated that African proverb to me.
I think of that and feel
The hollowness in the sound
Of these crickets hiding in the grave flowers.
Homeless,
I wander across desolate plains…
Fatherless now,
I must realize that he will not step from behind the barn;
That when I hear a strange noise and turn quickly
To see him there
I will never be quick enough;
I will no longer touch the bristles on his face.


His hands were strong and veined.
I see them now,
At once, gone…
Once again, everywhere.
They touched this cabin wood,
This Chestnut sprout,
This Hickory bark,
These rough sawed boards.

Here, they rested on my youthful head
And firmly grasped my hand as a young man.
They touched this earth,
Raking in toil across the stones.


Say goodbye,
The Hemlocks whisper…
Say goodbye,
The Oaks echo.
His eyes will never again see Pink Lady’s Slipper bloom in May.
Say goodbye,
Say goodbye…
I cannot say goodbye.
I cannot say goodbye these Autumn days
When I ache from the loss.
I cannot say goodbye


As my symbol shuffles through the Maple leaves
Washing across this gray Earth.
He laughed,
But I never saw him weep.
He walked where flowers bloomed;
Spoke native languages in Haiku…
Brief messages of complexity found in simple things.


I studied him like the university he was…
Earned several degrees under his thick eyebrows ---
Sometimes eagerly lapping the lesson,
Sometimes resistant.
But a well disciplined student who listened with him
To Pheasant wings beating a woodland drum;
To Crickets under his hearthstone;
To the angry bee buzzing out of the Catalpa bloom;
To the music made by leaf colors falling…
A student who watched small birds search the snow;
Tall ridges comb the clouds;
Roses strive in vain;
Cloud ships in the sky;
Mules thinking of oats;Dogwood blooms falling on blue pond waters…

Today the library burned
And I felt it useless to start another.
But he would have demanded it.
“Look at the volumes you already have!” He’d say.
“Rebuild, rebuild, rebuild!”

This beautiful poem was sent to me upon the death of my father, Lloyd G. Frey, by Carolyn Frey Rasmussen's daughters, Lenore Robbins, Laura Jean Frey and Dearwyn Woodbury.