Grave Digger
J
James McLain
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Graves diggers;
making the soil leach out even richer.
The hand only soft from the bottle
it reaches for, as it reaches for yours.
Even there beneath the leaves, curled.
The handle that lays you down within,
pushes against so grimly.
Lest you rise wanting deeper in sleep again.
The moon over your head so blue, shimmers
turns red even pink around the lake, it's lovely.
Hedges grow green even being it is so cold,
as each acorn is gently lowered in the void.
g.h.
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