First House on the Right  

You almost have to know it’s there.
Wrought iron posts hint at a
Lost enclosure now growing
Only weeds and  honeysuckle.
   
As you lift to the rise in the road
Look for ancient iron posts tilted in
Angles off to the right, guarding their
Forgotten patch of briars and grass.
 
County moved the road, cut the trees,
Scrapped away the path. Ignored stone
And fence so that nothing looked
Much the same except four iron posts.  

None of us speeding by remembered
The why of four iron posts, all, that is,
But those still living down the side road  
In the first house on the right.
 
Family don’t bury a baby wrapped
In his mother’s arms and forget how
Much was lost, a line, a name, tomorrow’s
Promise by aunts, grands, cousins.  

Fryman, stoic, stern, broken, carved
The marker with stem, flower, and name
Of wife, baby son. He put hands to plow
And cow and never took to walk past
Telling stone, the grave and four iron posts.  

Sing, O sing of what is lost, sing O
Sing of four iron posts, four iron posts
Yes,  sing again of four iron posts.