The day, a headstrong rush of cumulus
across the first blazing blues of spring,
turned to bones—the ones we found
with our grandchildren as we cleared brush
along the stone walls—mostly the leg
bones of cows and sheep, perhaps
the pelvic bone of a goat. They line them up
on an erratic left millions of years ago
on this once-upon-a-time farm, now whittled
to our old house and the seven acres we try
our best to take care of. We’re not surprised
when our grandson sights along a shinbone,
shooting at an imaginary enemy,
or our granddaughter lines them up
in the mathematics of one, two, three, four,
or cradles one like a doll. We are surprised
by their unusual lack of questions—not one
bone conjures up a once living cow.
And the one thing they always ask about,
their dead Uncle Daniel, our son, never crosses
their lips. It’s as if finding the bones
just gave way to playing with them
under this vibrant sun that turns the rhododendrons
into balls of purple light and helps the grass
come into its own, and the new leaves on the trees
take on a silvery-green afternoon sheen.
Despite the poverty of their new toys,
our grandchildren couldn’t be happier—
they’ve turned the bones into people now,
giving them names and carrying on
conversations, never once thrown
by the lack of liveliness in their playthings.
Robert Cording is professor emeritus at College of the Holy Cross. His most recent book is In the Unwalled City (Slant). Recent work is in the Georgia Review, New Ohio Review, Hudson Review, and The Common.
