In a cemetery, where in sadness, the roses lose their bloom,
the cart stands still, work left undone, ‘neath the red sun’s fiery plume,
In leisure, pen in hand, I weave a wonder, my purpose, in the written word.
I lean in repose as the wooden wheels, in protest, creak, and groan,
I hear whispered reminders in the wind of deeds still needing to be done.

Says the wind, as it whistles without tune, “I’ve seen this land both here and there,
Where idle wanderers weave their threads of stories for those who do not care,
and they find no ease in the written word, what is read is not what is heard”
a Moth, rare in beauty, fluttering by, to the wind, says, with an angry cry,
“Bother not this boy lest he bear the weight of worry, as time passes by”

Then she said to me, “My boy, when given a choice you must choose,
to chase your joy, cast cart, and cares to the wind, for in a life of toil, you lose.”
Then I thought of my Mother, my loss, even in death, my Mother, my muse,
Her soul was tough, never at rest. she toiled from dawn till dusk, these lands,
She worked hard for the love of us, and now of me, I feel the same demands.

She lies here, buried beneath this tree with branches reaching high,
The wind blows hard then, I hear the boughs as they cough and sigh,
Her last word to me was “Live!” As she coughed and died, I could not refuse,
but society has given me this task, to toil as every man should,
Yet still I lean against this cart and write in leisure beneath this sacred wood.

In thoughts where words are weaved on pages like a thread,
My tale unfolds, no, unravels, of hopes and dreams, of deeds and dread.
In a game of chance, in choices, in happenstance, some win, some lose,
I chose to rest, with work to do, a burden on my breast, a seed takes root,
A tiny promise, so I write it down, plant it in the ground, a future shoot.

As the sun sets, I sit beneath this tree with its tough branches like arms outstretched high,
The boughs cough and sputter, bullied by the wind as it reaches for the sky,
A symbol of those long passed by. Then comes a wanderer with choices to choose.
She sees my sad face next to the grave, so sings, “Cork the worries, let the joy unfurl,”
The cart beckons me to task, as she tempts, “Why toil when you can dance and swirl.”

In the shadows of the moon and stars, in candlelight, she sits with me,
to rest from her wanderings, but before dawn, she informs, she must again fly free.
I tell her of my life, of death, of dreams, she tells of a world where death’s tales are reborn,
and we sleep, work left undone. stories unwritten, tales unspun, until, just before dawn,
I awake to her smile, I see my future in her eyes, I had feared she would be gone.

She sits beside me one last time. the cart creaks and groans. She tells a tale of a dreadful bird,
It preyed upon death, toiled until old, then upon a bed of thorns, it breathed its final word,
With little time to reflect, beads of sweat, like the tears of poets, formed upon its head,
Its head now bowed low, in death, it gives life, its meat a feast for crows,
Wisdom now spun she winked, “The vulture is no threat to those who lay down woes.”

Yet in my mind burned a debt of tears, In life and death, I focused on whispered fears,
The wind blew in triumph as I chose to stay where the crimson rose at dawn appears,
She danced away without me, and looking up I saw, a vulture sitting atop an everlasting bed.
And then the Moth, my mother, I recognized her, as she came fluttering near,
Mother whispered to me. In her whisper I heard a tear, she shared her story, shared her fear.

“Son,” said she, with a solemn air, shadows of death we face,
“Here and there, I chose to toil, a heavy heart to bear, a lonely place,
I chose a path to work the cart, and to till the soil so deep,
Like a burdened bough, bullied by the wind, I plowed through despair,
Coughing up worries, I could not reach the sky, so I took to the earth with care.

Yet you seek to write even in uncertainty, tales, so tender and so great,
Amidst the whispers of doubts, be aware of the looming threat. Death is a twist of fate.
Ignore the wind, forsake the cart, lose yourself in dreams, weave stories to keep,
A thoroughfare of tales, take the leap, write the stories to be both heard and told,
Tell them, as a wanderer, of dreadful creatures, delightful too, be brave, be bold”

Just then, a goose, and then a gander, waddle by, in an amusing chase,
Their choosing of this path, a quirky interruption in this sacred place.
Down the rocky trail, they waddled, and from my lips a laugh did sound,
A splash, one and then the other, like corks upon the water, they did float,
In leisure, a symbol of the choices we make to live! In the early light, this I wrote.

They honked, as they danced and swirled “Go forth with courage, don’t be afeard,
Go after her, with a heart that’s strong in the coming dawn, your vision cleared.”
Honk, honk, a jolly tune, they sang as they swam, going round and round.
I thought to catch up to the wanderer, her smile, the scent of a fragrant rose,
next to a stone, covered in thorns, in the dawn it blooms, even alone it still grows.

In the shadow of a cemetery tree, in the game of life, a card is drawn,
A ward against the night, now with eyes open, I see the dawn,
My mother, in life, was strong. Now dead, I thought hard and long about what was said.
The stories of life and death through the songs of wanderers, in tales are spread.
My debt is paid, Mother, as I prepare to stand, to walk with fearless tread…
I stood then, and the cart moved, with a jolt, and I hit my head.

This is part of a TABLE OF CONTENTS restraint poem- In this constraint, I have taken a Poetry Anthology originally published in 1925. Each section contains 20-40 titles. My Constraint was to use as many words as possible in the table of contents to construct a new Poem.