The Singing Tree

I buried your bones on the fourth day of a hard August.

Reluctantly dropping them into the cold, cavernous earth

That trebbling and shaking as your brittle percussion sang back to its mother,

as she lay a ghost in the humming soil.

Wooden trees with 6 strings play their harmonies as you decay,

Watched by thoughtful animals who always seem confused

and out of tune with the moon and the sun that cast their time signatures.

I sprinkled your bones with trills and bits of flammable twigs,

Drizzling spit and hymns on them as they interweaved,

and the smaller creatures hid

and from your marrow sprung a seed

that you will grow and be more content, without me.

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