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A grave for the sun
The ground is moist as I stab and twist
scraping along gravel and rocks
plunging forward to duel
with blades of grass
ripping through a patch of moss
that slides off of my sharpened point.
I hack through roots
digging deeper, molding clay
into remembered shapes.
I carve my nitch just to hold them.
The first is shaped like a deer
proud and defiant
pawing at the ground and snorting mist
I can almost feel it on my face
licking salt from my cheek.
Next I shape the mother divine
swollen like spring rivers
resolute like the stone.
She watches me sever worms.
I turn her away
as more dirt is shoveled over the dying
and patted down.
My sight descends
as I try to grasp the last moment of light.
It was a quiet death
that happened somewhere off to my left
as I flittered around in this hole
searching for some meaning to add to this eulogy.
I need a flashlight
filling this hole with the dead and the blind
muffling their tortured screams.
With godlike finality
I rub my hand across the loose dirt
to smooth out the rough edges
of this burial mound.