Georgia Graveyard

All fern and greenery on the hill
crawling brambles and rubbery leaves,
and in the mulm is somewhere laying
a wooden cross – decaying,
slowly,
a compass pointing to the dead
forgotten and lonesome beneath the bed
of nettles, pines,
and small sharp flowers,
here are bones passing hours.

‘try writing something nice for once’

It’s easy to focus on the storm,
and hard to focus on the soil –
Dirt? Just dirt?
flecks and specks, a place to toil
all hard clays and loam,
a place to sweat upon
and feel the rain, and fear
the thunder.

It’s easy to focus on the storm,
and hard to focus on the soil;
harder, still, to imagine the seeds
of promised flowers,
green and brown and white,
glazed with seeping moisture,
and the tiny sprout
surging upwards,
reaching towards the sunlight,
spurred by a passing storm.