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.
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.