The skid-steer bucket chatters
against the clay and decomposing
granite baked like concrete,
inching deeper into my mind
to the great bay horse dressed pink
and white with long-stemmed Centuary,
scattered wild petals I covered
with dirt—each shovelful a memory
for over an hour. Another hole
and granite headstone, we are surrounded
by the old and faithful we have survived—
another hole, hearts perforated
with each dear soul lost that now arrives
to attend this moment to make us whole.
Quick and painless after fourteen years
of alert devotion, I steal fine ground squirrel
tailings smoothed for the ‘good dog Jack’—
a winter blanket to sow for flowers.
drycrikjournal 