Death Is So Little

  Death is so little in my hand Cool as the air, yielding to each consecutive step Furry and loose, yet impossible to ignore, Seeming darkly anomalous on this bright colored day.   I bring death to the backyard to bury it In the shade of the fig tree Beneath the arched branches Where no summer sun will disturb.    My shovel from the garage splits dirt easy. The light work reveals the space In which rest may come out of sight And beyond the embarrassment of blood.   This one will lie near the others that steadily fill The corners of my life. A solemn task but necessary Here where all are measured by the day, the year As moments dissolve slowly into the earth.