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Not Yet


Oh, grass, why won’t you grow?  My baby’s grave all dusty dry.  Bare as bones and fresh as the day we laid her there.  All around the lush grass grows and new life covers over ugly dirt.  Another buried after mine is just around the corner.  Beneath her stone the ground is green as if it were untouched.  Spring came and  bloomed around her headstone.  But not my baby’s grave.   

Oh, grass, why won't you grow?  You make tears spring to my eyes.  The stone’s shadow falls on bareness- a wound in the earth- a schism in the universe.  The pact between life and death was broken and her breath was stolen too soon.  Even the earth seems to know it was not meant to be this way.  It refuses to cover the gash.   As if the dirt is screaming that the belly of the earth should not have been torn open for this little one… no, not yet.  From the bird’s eye, all is lush and geen in this field of sacred stones- except the reddish plot where nature itself objects to what is unnatural- the death of giggly laughter and hair of sunshine and eyes green like the sea.  

 Oh grass why won’t you grow?  Almost a full year and it looks barely a week ago.  Seeds we have planted but to no avail.  Perhaps the birds have picked them away.  An anomaly in the meadow.  Maybe the earth is waiting for my heart to heal.  Could it be a mirror of my own refusal to accept?  A mystery of reflection?  The soul seen clearly in muddy dirt?  The life just can’t seem to cover over the death… to heal up earth or heart.  Ten months is just too short.  A turning of the head.  A blinking of the eye.  And so the dirt lies fresh.  And so the heart lies torn.  Perhaps waiting for my grip to loosen, to slip a little… no, not yet.

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