My father died in June of 1964. He was 36. I wrote this poem in memory of him, William Earl Williams

In Memory

It should be the memory of a hammer striking the crude nail
Driving it through the rough hewn pine
Slicing grain from grain

It should be the great effort, heavy grind of stone on stone
Sliding the lid to alignment with vault
Solidly into place

Such sounds and visions would be true reminders of the drama
Moving painfully among breath and dream
Caressing wounds to scars

Yet, what remains is the dull click of metal
Latches with well insulated springs
An almost insignificant sound

As the casket closed.