A poem for my father, Plumer Jean Cody (May 19, 1931 – November 7, 1996), who lay down in his soldier’s grave a quarter century ago.

The Veteran’s Cemetery, Early November

Early November, when his autumn work was done,
he left us standing stupid and staring
at the blue-brown of the coming
Appalachian winter.

He left behind the shrinking garden, harvested,
the expanding lawn, mowed its final time.
He left behind the handy man
who could fix anything,

took leave of the newly retired postal worker
who never went postal, and abandoned
his role as little patriarch,
begetter of two sons.

He abdicated head-of-household status, in
the house that was never his, left the loved
wife of forty-two years and her
overbearing weakness—

That night he shed this life like Wednesday’s dirty clothes
and would have been surprised by all who braved
early snows to watch him lie down
in a proud soldier’s grave.