I wanted to carry you to the softest place,
lilting but my words came out heavy,
awkward, pounding like iron.
And so I gathered them up
into a rusted tin and buried them
in the yard between the apple trees,
where the wind and rain would
patiently caress them
into fine red dust.
The songbirds wrote me up
for disturbing the peace, incensed
at the grating sound my shovel made
as it excavated earth and pebbles.
Chickweed sap ran down its blade
weeping, everything crushed.
March 7, 2009