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.