Committal
Mud cakes my ankles
and where my foot crushed the wasted earth
water pools below the headstone,
sox feet above the head and concrete vault.
It's colder below, but the wind and rain above
dog hard into my bones,
and a dozen weary eyes are grateful for the rain,
as though God is weeping, not them.
The roses in icy hands, already dead,
begin to show it, wilting in the spray.
Huddled under the pastor's blessing hand,
our hearts are warm.
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