winter funerary

The earth does not yearn
for us. Rarely
will she peel back
her sod and say “Come to me”.
No, as if standing upon her
were not enough, we must,
granular in a way, return
with our hands and fat brains,
our shovels and spades
to lay a body down.

She is unconcerned.
While we, unconsoled
and spiteful, splendid
in our griefs and withered
in our hemps and wools
return what is hers as return
we must these never owned.
Few will remark on this, not here.
As to the godless faith briefly.
As to the faithful black doubt.

Image: Paolo Chiabrando on Unsplash