Note: written 2018

______________________________________

Something, a whisper or a secret song,

tells the grass in the green meadow

that their time has come.

Now they must wear their beige and brown

for a funeral for themselves,

and climb into their coffins and,

leave their bodies behind.

Mourning, a soft coo or a howling wind,

flutters its wings or picks up dry carcasses,

and all the creatures of the meadow

line up behind the entourage.

The dead bell tolls the death of millions,

of little brown grasses who will

not return again next year, or

the year after that.

Some resilient ones will rise,

rise from their coffins only to

fall back down lifelessly.

Crying, a weeping willow or wilted flowers,

shed tears of leaves or petals and,

all will remember all who have died today

and bow their heads as the millions of coffins,

carrying small bodies, small grasses,

are lowered all at once into the hole

and die together.

Dirt falls on the bodies and the coffins while a

chorus wails for the loss and,

the forest takes vigil as first snow

freezes everything.