THE BOXWOOD TREE
THE BOXWOOD TREE
Inhale the rich damp smell
of the soil
dredged up from far below.
Heaped upon Green grass,
and covered
with the fakeness’ of
thin smiles and teary eyes,
Covered to conceal the dirt within.
The good book is opened.
It’s words spill out
and pool at the feet.
Emotionless faces turn away.
The swampy earth makes sucking sounds
as the glue of it
tries to feast on shined
shoes.
There stands the Graveyard man
under a Boxwood tree,
waiting for the echoes
of the newly departed to die away.
A shade galvanized in his
hand.
Sun pale and warm as the
dark suit mourners disappear.
The coldness of their
gesturers
peel and flake off
like the
egos that spawned them.
Quietness now rules
as the spade
turns the hand.
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