Put the last handful of our dirt on the last grave. None belong to me. Each blade of grass loved, a sugar sky, the monster, a pine cone pulpit, a ministering squirrel and the dreadful rabbits who inhabit this silent place, my quiet copse, a place where only we can go.
The husk is brittle, the inside world made of stone, hardened and as cold as the grave. Broken teeth sinking in, the casket a pure onyx and beating heart that is alive, a smokeless, sleek wood no one has ever seen before with the eyes of this pitiful world, handcrafted by a carpenter unlike all others.
Thank you, the soft red clay welcomes the last orchid like a loving mother who lost a child, unto our light, unto our hands, our sad fall from a wilderness of grace, wherever you go, I go, I am going, I am going.