In the Garden

Softly bedded down among crickets, beetles and worms
Ah, not asleep, gone and not gone
Clay turns to clay in the mouth of a skull
In a blanched jawbone; on clavicles like native flutes

Gently moldering in silence, muffled with shovels of dirt
The animals know, the animals know
Merciful time carefully rearranges the bones
The swelling seasons do disturb and put back into place

A hard rain on the roof of a grieving mourner's shack
A hard rain on the roof of a house all draped in black