At the Springville City Cemetery

by | Jun 25, 2013 | Poetry

There is still one field I can love

                                Larry Levis




It’s always grey—

even if  there’s nothing but blue sky

mirroring the sun.


Tall granite monuments mixed in with

softer sandstone markers, rise up

from the earth, tease the living with stories

we will never fully know.


Trees are always black.

Cottonwood giants a hundred years

in the making stretch their barren fingers

into a perpetual mind’s winter,

brush aside the leaves no one ever sees drop.




Of course you know

not all the graves have markers.

Some have been forgotten, misplaced,

swallowed by this shifting earth.  Each year

some are found and reclaimed.


Some never will be.


Every now and then vandals

jump the fence, break the older stones in two,

fracturing the town from the past

one name at a time.




When you stand here, among the names

it is hard to shake the clichés― this is a field

sown for a harvest which will never come;

an orchard which bears no fruit.


Common wisdom says Visit the cemetery

if you want to know the town.  You don’t need

much imagination to see beyond faded names

and verses to learn its history―


All you need to do is listen.







Photo by James Jardine

About The Author

Justin Evans

Justin Evans lives in rural Nevada with his wife and sons, where he teaches English and history at the local high school. He is the author of four chapbooks and four full length collections of poetry. His next book, All the Brilliant Ideas I’ve Ever Had, is forthcoming from Foothills Publishing.