Edwin Honig

Hammocked in a net of shade,
The cemetery sun deflects
A beam that winks along the path
In flecks of quiet endlessness.

Grim, alert, the twins emerge:
Upstart spinster monuments;
Pails scarcely swinging, they step out,
White classical American.

Blueberries big as grapes are at
The brims. Their bony fists clench handles
As they join the mortal street.
And the livelong summer fondles them.

How like them in fifty years
(To one absurd, sun-struck as I)
Their spinster nieces pass alert
With berries plundered off their graves.