Today, I am headed to Edenton, North Carolina, for a visit and a bookreading. It's my hometown, although I haven't lived there in over two decades. Still, its streets and buildings and stories and, most of all, people, shaped me, and I am grateful for the gifts of that place. So in honor of Edenton, I'm publishing the only poem I've ever written that I think holds its own, a memory of a day when I was eight or nine:Grave-rubbing On a sunny Saturday afternoon We took white paper and a Crayola box, Skipped across the sidewalk cracks Where stubs of defiant green poked through And, breathless, slowed, with shirts and hair untucked To walk, suppressing giggles.

Prickling sweat along my spine Gave reason to halt beneath a cedar tree At that day's stone-symbol of eternal rest With buttercups and invading weeds. Giddy, we squatted to read the chiseled words, "Fred Gray, Loving Husband, Son."

We used our hands to dust the granite slab Still, gray smudged the edges of our crisp white paper, Used Black, Scarlet, White, Grass-Green and Yellow To transform his name with bold bright stripes Humming softly as we worked, Dreaming masterpieces from the grave.

But there the lady stood with hand on hip Her hair pulled back into a small blonde bun Throwing reprimands across the song-filled air Crying "Respect!" as wide-eyed we scrambled, Grabbed the crayons but left the paper. We sauntered once we reached the sunny streets And brushed the dry leaves from our hair.