In the empty field, in the morning, <br />the body waits to be claimed. <br />The spirit sits beside it, on a small rock-- <br />nothing comes to give it form again. <br /> <br />Think of the body's loneliness. <br />At night pacing the sheared field, <br />its shadow buckled tightly around. <br />Such a long journey. <br /> <br />And already the remote, trembling lights of the village <br />not pausing for it as they scan the rows. <br />How far away they seem, <br />the wooden doors, the bread and milk <br />laid like weights on the table.<br /><br />Louise Gluck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fear-of-burial/
