Hobble Creek Review
| David Oestreich |
Memento
. . . quia pulvis es.
Before spring plowing, the farmer weeps
and prays. He has sent his sons again
to pluck the headstones from the nameless graves.
Do not wonder that the natives claimed to glimpse
their forbears in the deer’s deep eyes;
it had grazed all summer on the sacred mounds.
Feign no surprise that children (who
are closer to the ground) still recognize
the gray face smiling from the dusty moon.
The sculptor has set aside her stone for
immortality. She is out digging clay
to mold one thousand busts in her own image.
I watched my father’s face fade pale as ash;
his voice became the trickled whisper
of a distant mountain spring.
As certainly as Homo is our name, we are alike
descendants of the dirt, each grown
from grains as small as specks of sand,
each swelling like a wave—a moment’s animation—
quickly sinking down into the rich, black sea
and waiting there to rise again.
Coronation
~Psalm 8:4-5
The autumn breeze
is a herald,
trumpeting my late ascent,
while in the west,
the sky bows its yellow head
nearer and nearer the ground.
Bluestem reaches up,
with brazen hands folds me
in its obeisant embrace.
On the hill opposite
the one I have taken as my throne,
an oak tree rises,
spreads russet wings as if for flight,
its gnarled claws
still clutching earth. At length,
I may lift my hand
and give it leave to soar,
but listen—
all about me,
the rocks
are crying out my name!
. . . quia pulvis es.
Before spring plowing, the farmer weeps
and prays. He has sent his sons again
to pluck the headstones from the nameless graves.
Do not wonder that the natives claimed to glimpse
their forbears in the deer’s deep eyes;
it had grazed all summer on the sacred mounds.
Feign no surprise that children (who
are closer to the ground) still recognize
the gray face smiling from the dusty moon.
The sculptor has set aside her stone for
immortality. She is out digging clay
to mold one thousand busts in her own image.
I watched my father’s face fade pale as ash;
his voice became the trickled whisper
of a distant mountain spring.
As certainly as Homo is our name, we are alike
descendants of the dirt, each grown
from grains as small as specks of sand,
each swelling like a wave—a moment’s animation—
quickly sinking down into the rich, black sea
and waiting there to rise again.
Coronation
~Psalm 8:4-5
The autumn breeze
is a herald,
trumpeting my late ascent,
while in the west,
the sky bows its yellow head
nearer and nearer the ground.
Bluestem reaches up,
with brazen hands folds me
in its obeisant embrace.
On the hill opposite
the one I have taken as my throne,
an oak tree rises,
spreads russet wings as if for flight,
its gnarled claws
still clutching earth. At length,
I may lift my hand
and give it leave to soar,
but listen—
all about me,
the rocks
are crying out my name!
David Oestreich is a human resources professional living
in northwest Ohio with his wife and three children. His work
has previously appeared in both online and print journals,
including Ruminate, Eclectica, Minnetonka Review, and
Umbrella.
in northwest Ohio with his wife and three children. His work
has previously appeared in both online and print journals,
including Ruminate, Eclectica, Minnetonka Review, and
Umbrella.
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