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The Burial of the Dead
April is the kindest month. Mixing
rainwater with winter grass, browned
by the forgotten snow and cold. There
is warmth in the water now, and dust
is no longer charging fear into the old dead sockets
left by ice displacement.
A skull in ground, and not a care left in my mind.
And not a care left in my mind.
The lake was shimmering, sure. Also,
the breeze cooled my overwarm skin, but
the flashes of heat from your eye never quite left
the impression you had hoped.
The following winter’s blizzard chilled
every last bit of you from me.
Hope springs eternal, they say.
I never had hoped for a miracle.
I wasn’t dissappointed.
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