from a high window

from her high window
on North Meade,
facing the cemetery you can see
the river,
a sleeve of steel blue
under the Washington sun
in winter.
the stones are white,
straight,
upright. bouquets of flowers
dot the land.
the dead. the military dead
lie at rest, a president too.
could you live here and see
this everyday?
the changing of seasons,
the sea of grass
holding so many
in, so tight.