I carry his small furry remains
from one room to another
wrapped in handspun from India
while with shovels, picks and bare hands
we grapple sun baked soil
toss rocks that once slumbered
on an ocean floor, prepare
his humble grave.

winter freeze makes impenetrable
ground and I can’t but imagine him
cold and lonely. still, we leave him
there in intimate conversation
with the elements.

drawn down, to worship at
the alter of fecundity, where
the peach and fig trees grow

where we gather wild flowers
in early summer, make daisy chains
for little girls who walk hand in hand
on mossy paths through
the last remaining virgin forests

where we harvest blueberries
plums, lie on green grasses
dreaming redemption.

groaning under the weight of billions
who trample hard her tender grasses
cut down and out, her breathing trees
she knows, even if we refuse
what truly endures and
what surely must die.