I will come to rest under the red oak,
In the shade at the end of the dirt road.
Between the corn and the factory folk,
They saved me a place according to code.
I have washed these stones with soap and water,
Stopping to trace the names with my finger.
I have been away yet still they offer
To let me lie with them here and linger.
Who will remember the name you carried?
Blood will run and dry but never transgress
Upon the ground where its past is buried.
Their offer is order, my answer yes—
When the harvest returns with the reaper,
Lay me down and let me be the keeper.
Eric Beidel has written hundreds of poems, stories, and essays he kept private until now. He has worked as a reporter, night janitor, editor-for-hire, speechwriter, and bureaucrat. He still uses pencils and the hand-me-down typewriter he got when he was 12. A native Midwesterner, Eric now lives in the shadow of the Santa Catalina Mountains in Tucson, Arizona, where he watches baseball and sunsets.