DRY CRIK Journal

Filling the hole – covering the other half
of the dance that blessed uneven ground
and unforgiving circumstance with heart

and elegance – took time, each scoop spilled
and built around your crimson rose petals,
garden yarrow ripening beside a bouquet

of purple brodiaea wound with pink centaury.
Domestic and wild, the mystic and suddenly
symbolic branded in brilliant colors savored

between each bucketful until the last full
moment was eclipsed with dark, damp earth.
It took time to find and feel hydraulic grace,

smooth and efficient gestures of respect
for the horse you groomed beneath the blue
oaks with dear words, a bucket of oats,

show sheen and fly spray on softest hair,
his forelock finally full. And as you waited
for the vet, the atrophied old man followed

to the lone oak shade near the open hole –
souls making promises on a cool breeze,
one last walk to the bottom of all things.

                March 21, 1980 – June 4, 2010

March 21, 2010