Only the Hemlocks

Raindrops splash on a dashboard Jesus.

The coroner’s van sits black as a crow.

Streetlight halos hang empty of angels,

as hemlocks watch over the chaos below;

over water and blood and gas and oil,

over hush of death, and hand of fate,

over waning cries, and tears and toil,

as they flow into the culvert’s grate;

into the blackness, toward the ocean,

back to the place where life began,

and what remains is towed away,

or placed into the waiting van.

And only the hemlocks stand in witness,

as flashing lights at dawn abate,

and as painted roadside crosses fade,

only the hemlocks wait.

RLJ - 2010