The Wake

When the trees shake,
like the fingers of a hand,
we’ll fall and roll,
into the muddy trenches.

We play warfare like experts;
one smothering the other,
one swallowing up another.

Pressing down, harder, faster,
drying out the heartbeat,
bringing down the leaves
and the dead branches.

They’ll sing eulogies at our wake,
and ask for Jesus to carry us back,
the rest they’ll bury,
using the trees as markers.

As children, they’ll be able to tell our graves apart,
but as adults, it’ll look just like any other forest;
great oaks fanning out,
great trees coming down.

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