How like a wound is an open grave
Cut sharp into the wet green earth
Gaping as it waits to swallow the casket
That hovers above reflecting
The comfortless morning sunlight.
The bereaved flock to the graveside
Like a murmuration of starlings,
Listening to the incantation of the shaman
In the desperate hope there is a soul to be saved.
Trying to understand the ineffable fragility of life,
Trying to accept that the departed have gone,
Trying to believe they ever were.
Staring in uncomprehending desolation
At the dark oblivion that waits
At the shadowy bottom of that fresh wound in the earth.
–Stephen P. Smith