Poetry of Robert Fisher
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The Cenotaph
The steep stone stairway,
Flanked by narrow terraces,
Ablaze with flowers of bright yellow,
Red of desert sunsets,
Blue of northern lakes,
Every color in the paint box,
And at the summit the souls
Of the fallen, or at least
Our memories of them.

We who still live,
We the not yet dead,
We the numb with grief,
With the meaninglessness of grief,
Climb the steep steps,
Homer’s steep death,
While bees visit flowers,
Gorgeous finches search for seeds,
Seeds that bring more life.

We built this tower of grey stone,
Because in our grief we had to do something.
So we hauled field stones
From a hundred farms,
Dragged them up this hill,
Almost a vertical hill,
So for a while we could stop
Dwelling on our grief,
On the reality of waiting death,
Of life buzzing with bees
And seeds in the soil waiting
To break through the surface
With every color in the paint box.

July 31st, 2016