taps

We crawled
like quail in the graveyard,
hid quiet behind markers
while Larry trumpeted Taps,
slow and poignant,
for herringbone mourners.

Then skipped
along the blanket-tops, at ease
among the tombs and trees,
tipped small, pigeon-toed
between headstones;

not disturbing the slumber,
not stepping directly
on their beds, crouching low,
still, against a marble pillow,
to prevent the crunching
of leaves.

Tess Kincaid

October 27, 2010


I have fond memories of tagging along with my young uncles, who were actually more like brothers to me, in the Burlington Cemetery, Carroll County, Indiana when I was a girl. We would watch quietly, from a safe distance, while my Uncle Larry, played Taps for local funerals on his trumpet. 

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