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1 Poem - By David James 1 Poem - By Lynne Douglass |
THE LEADVILLE CEMETERY, 1995 A precious one from us is gone A voice we loved is stilled A place is vacant in our home That never can be filled -Alice King, 1889 -10 yrs old The names in the cemetery break the morning air as I say them out loud, words forming like bluejays, awkward and angry. Westella Timberlake, 1947 Lena Muselman, 1887 Daniel D. Field, 1906 Jessie E., 1886 One tombstone marks the bare essentials: Walter Donahue July 12, 1887 3 yrs, 10 mos, 2 day Some I can’t read, people scraped away after decades of rain and snow and neglect. Others are surrounded by ornate wrought-iron fences, feeble attempts to keep something out or something in. As I wander from grave to grave, I see the wisdom of being buried in Leadville, 10,200 feet up, as close to heaven as possible. I want my resting place here in full view of Mt. Elbert and Mt. Massive so I can watch the mountains spread across the horizon. Some geologists claim this range is still forming, increasing in height two inches every year. I like the thought of moving upward toward the planets and stars, rising toward light, toward wind, up into the swaying trees even after death. Especially after death.
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