Not A Grave

When no one was looking I hauled my bitterness

to the furthest corner of the garden

the corner where leaves gather on windy days

the corner that is always in shade

 

a grey crow sat in judgement high above

it’s black eyes on my back as

I gave an afternoon to digging

 

I laid my bitterness inside the hole

not a grave as

it had not lived

and was not dead

 

covering it with stony soil I waited

to feel different

I looked up and felt a raindrop on my forehead

the crow was gone

 

years later I watched my daughter walk to the furthest corner of the garden

I saw her walk behind a small, unnoticed tree

her pale skin behind dark spindly branches

I heard the call of a crow and, I remembered

 

I ran first to the shed for the axe

then, to the furthest corner of the garden

 

calling to her oh so calmly

to step away, into the summer sun

 

three blows later the tree was dead

lying prone and brittle at my feet

I turned and saw my little girl

bite into an unknown fruit

and heard a crow caw far away