A Season’s Wait


Grandma’s remains we buried
in the cold, trampled earth
by gnarled, aging tree trunks
anguished by limbs withered
to leafless decay, where
amidst perished bough
and barren ground
lie fallen
seeds
strewn all
about, lying in wait
for sun and fair showers
knowing that in those
windblown, shriveled shells
springtime is just a season’s wait.