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Poem

My hands spade the shovel - spay the rooted grave.
Earth is impassive.  Why won’t life relent?
The silver blades south for the black plastic bag
swallowed by west winds, wrapped in a blanket
that is olive green.  Under the sun’s harrowing husk
I peel away the last bit of crust yet unpeeled.
Pink scab, raw, refusing to heal.  Dusk is dawn, hushed -
the garden takes back what the plate glass revealed.
There is no breeze now as I sit down to write
in my black plastic chair once taken from me
by a black plastic bag.  No peaceful leaves blow 
as I swallow remains of what remains of night
while the lumbering bough climbs down from a tree
and sees through the window a fragmented shadow.

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