Burial Mound

Burial Mound

There is a mound of earth near water
That rises alien and circular,
In full-view of the highway
And passing cars
Who take no notice


It swells to block the sun

As it descends.
And surely it must hold
Some power still,
In the roots down beneath
Where life has flowed
Down,
And down the river
In ages past

Even now
Many times I have wondered
If something flowers beneath it
Or if it has delivered those that it contains
To some other place with flowing waters.


I have tried to count the time by its trees,
And I know it must have been made by men
Long ago.
The river people,
Or the woods people,
Who called themselves by their own names.

And I wonder if once-living things placed there
Have given it some sort of life
Given it those arms
That reach upward inch by inch
And hold out some hope of rising.

Or if its circular shape continues beyond our sight,
Or turns opposite within the earth,
And contrary to our knowing.


If we the living were to descend there
I think we might be transformed
And plunged back out
Into the full bright sun;

Into the turning wheel,
With frail arms to reach ever upward