some of us are still missing

a dearth in the hearth

this Christmas

more dirt in burial

filled in by stranger hands

these lessons begin

bringing fruition

the idea of man

mortality on billboards

sorrow hung on clothes’ line

out back we sing low

dirt tossed over solemn vow

one day trodden down

howl, will you cold wind

baying wolf at moonrise

obsequy for prey fallen

interment, hallowed sound

soil turned over night

rich smells of fallen so visceral

dig deeper when they make my bed, love

I fear I may not make my own funeral, love

just bury what you need to say

take your leave, still be I dead

no longer, no further

we pray.

 

 

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