Fresh Wound

We walked through the grass finding our way to the spot
Where the grass rectangle lay freshly cut like a wound that hasn’t yet scarred.
I stood there on top of the earth, my dad’s flesh rotting six feet below.
What a strange thing. I didn’t like it.
We propped the dying poinsettias back up near where I suppose his headstone will soon go.
The deer had their way with the flowers and the grass above dad’s buried coffin.
He has returned to the earth, though it’s blocked by that hideous box
And nature is doing its thing now
As above, so below.
I couldn’t stay long in that place, where the sky touches the lawn
It was gloomy and cold in all the ways it can be.
Pelican Point shorelineInstead we went to see the waves crash, and the surfers live
We ate at Barbara’s Fishtrap, then I touched the water and the sand
I stood at the shore, feeling it.
I feel more there. I feel better there.

Author: Becky

California-based photographer and designer, working to cultivate beauty

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