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.