I learn that a friend had twins yesterday,
a year after her mother died.
As I go my way, I smile.
My mind drifts
to a scene
of grass and flowers growing back
at time-lapse speed
over a grave site.
What is mortal
is swallowed up by life.
My own father’s death
is just a few weeks past.
The ground by his headstone
is still broken and churning,
hard clods lay on top
like fists,
and though the dirt was replaced
the hole remains,
a scar in the grass.
But the spring rains will come.
With the whispered hush of their falling
they will wash and settle
the churning ground.
Even the clods will soften
and open.
Underneath,
roots will mend
their torn fabric;
shoots will find their way up
through the broken places,
and flowers will lift their faces to the sun
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