Hickory Creek Chapel

Only headstones now;
the building that gathered
farmers and farmers' wives and
sons and daughters for prayer and
lemonade and ice-cream
is gone.
The fields are here,
that gave them daily bread,
fattened cattle, hogs, sheep;
the creek nearby,
for fish and crawdads.
The green grass, birdsong,
blue skies, south winds,
all still come here.
Gone are the preachers,
revivalists, old maid pianists,
organ pumpers, squirming children,
paper fans, button-up leather shoes,
tight collars on dirty, bronzed necks,
lace sleeves caressing rough, blue-veined hands,
straw hats and suspenders.
The breeze whispers the
tired, fervent voices singing
The Old Rugged Cross,
reciting Psalm 23,
responding Amen.
Only names and dates:
farmers and farmers' wives,
unlucky children, sickly infants,
repentant prodigals, and
children who never left home in eighty years.
Names from my grandparents' stories,
names I and my parents wear.