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A grave for the sun

Updated on February 14, 2013

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.

Don't look,

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.

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