There sleeps beneath our plastic roof <br />A frail piece of Russian soil <br />Enough of who I am for me to know no other. <br />She sleeps and I turn from diversion <br />To better hear celestial silence and pray <br />That a spirit will be with us to lay a keel <br />Amidst the swirl of eddies <br />Beseting lives smarting from life's many currents. <br />And with this - strange grief <br />that so many do not care - <br />About the living of straight lines <br />Or even engagement with the struggle <br />That ever keeps my heart from scorn of saints.<br /><br />Bill Grace<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/john-ciardi-s-ghost/
