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Pity the Shovel that Buries the Earth
Beneath a callused skin of light
the hunched and mustered
clap a prayer between a leaking sight.
It is the earth that mourns itself,
whether baldly thrown or loamy laid
the silent soil repaints its sullied shrouds
far beyond any atoning sorrow,
or cooling heart.
It is none but a laboring pity
to lay down the past
as deep as a weeping sky allows
or raise a hand only to tamp down
a new-turned mound.
Restless are the skewing worms
ever churning a blood-born mud,
eyeless they cover the once begotten,
cloak a hard pressed present and loss.
as the missing
deafly retreat beyond our ken.
Hear now the trilling birds,
how they far-fling their buoyant hymns,
see how they hop between their own bones.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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