the thorns, the thistles, the body
of rosebushes growing along the fence line.
Summer will not give
and the dog is digging up
rows of beds,
drought-driven and bare.
We have it backwards: tragedy
plus time is just as tragic still
and presses down
with the weight of heaven.
Blades glow like wings
cut from iron;
stillness grows in trees, in blood.
Each afternoon is a grave
so we do what we can to fill them:
hoe back the brush and rake the furrows clean,
watch the dog bury what’s his—
dead bird or antler tip—
and see how easily the earth takes
what it’s given.