I appreciate that this beautiful mausoleum is an erected testament to the MacLeay family of Portland, Oregon. But, for me, this structure, the highest amongst thousands of graves in the Lone Fir Cemertery, is a fascinating testament to stone masons and glass-smiths that carried out someone’s vision. No, it’s not a European edifice many hundreds of years old, but the craftsmen here were definitely a byproduct of those craftsmen.
Something so little causes me to fall,
stones in the path or markings on a wall.
Invisible, perhaps, but nonetheless,
it sends me reeling. I have not a guess
to what its meaning for me might reveal.
Am I to change what I’ve just done? The keel
of my small boat keeps me from tipping o’er
so I don’t run aground upon the shore.
Still, pebbles, markings, slits of yellow sun
voice messages to me: What should I shun
and what should I give more attention to?
Each as a signpost points to something new.