1936

I bury the head of a white carnation in the jungle

of purple flowers on the wooden arch of his casket,

heavy as a chest filled with clay and a grandfather’s

good intentions.

We return in an hour to see the mound of

earth tucked flat,

and a bed of grass stitched back in place,

dappled with soil and snowflakes to disguise

the faint scent of tobacco, a mason’s apron,

and nails cleaned of eight decades of

blood-warm soil with the worn blade

of a pocket knife, glass-thin and folded.

I gaze

Above the mountain tops as the skies

turn iron-gray.