and plant the trees
yet still the bones pile up,
threatening to overwhelm
our carefully crafted shores;
the leaves -- so bright,
when we chose to plant them --
falling now, the dead bare branches
mournful echo of the bones below,
the stones, cold graves that mark
the losses, wait for wind and wave
and tide to bring yet more.
Perhaps I'll mow the lawn
to keep this tidy edge,
delineating what is mine,
is green, is thriving still -- life --
and what is not, is theirs,
is oh so carefully held at bay,
but mounting up until I can't ignore,
and feel this fragile boundary
dissolving, color leaching out
while gray seeps in.
Come, blessed fog:
roll in, and muffle sound and feeling,
tame the dark and light
until they no longer speak,
no longer tell the tale
of was and is and is to come
but only toll for Now
for Now
for Now.
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