April

Shovel-sounds. The earth
sharpening blades.
You are lost, a seed
in the furrows.

I watch an earthworm press
into your same ground.
Death touches none
of its several hearts.
It will burrow deep
and later, when it rains,
re-emerge as though it were all the same.

Here. The loose soil
your displaced.
One cannot give without taking
and vice-versa.
A sad lesson to learn under a sky as blue as this,
but it was not a choice.

I wonder what plants will grow here.
I imagine their roots
stretching deep into loam,
thin thunderbolts, thirsty.
Finding what?

The birds (I picture thrush, robin,
wren) sing until sunset.
No clouds. Slight breeze.
It would have been a lovely day
to go out with you, sit on the grass
and let time idly pass.