Stone Gardens
Bouquets of peonies swell against granite,
wine stains in this vineyard of memory.
The flagpole exerts a centripetal strength.
It is dedicated to a man whose death
was so close to the end,
it was not announced until the war was over.
A man who grew up across the street
tells me he has never come here to walk among
the unsettled whispers of his ancestors.
Three brothers, whose parents locked them
out of the house, line up like the three figures
who cannot see, hear or speak evil.
One died in an accident, one of diabetes
and the third hung himself after burning
a barn where prize horses screamed
until silenced by heat and smoke.
I thought I had forgotten
who drank too much,
who bled to death after an illegal abortion,
who gave me candy when visiting their houses.
The flat stones of the Indians
rest darkly at the edge of the laurel.
In a dream I travel to a friend's house,
look out the window to the cemetery next door.
Headstones rise, shadows in the gray light
of a cloudy day, transform into statues,
statues of saints I don't recognize.
Something moves, comes into focus
so clear I want to speak with them:
the three Magi. They laugh,
the closest wears a red silk robe
embroidered in gold.
Diane Westergaard
Diane Westergaard graduated from the University of Washington with a BA in anthropology and then studied theology at Northwest Theological Union. Her poems have appeared in Bellingham Review, Fine Madness, Prairie Schooner, Beyond Parallax, Crab Creek Review, The Temple, and The Charlotte Poetry Journal. With guitarist Garylee Johnson, she co-produced and co-wrote Ghost in the Garden, a chapbook and audio tape of poetry, music and song.