We buried her in the spring, in the field where summer poppies bloom. Nothing holy grew from our grief, scattered like seeds across her grave.
Her mother’s tears watered the ground and her lover’s guilt summoned the harvest. Had we recognized in time the truth of her death, he would have joined her under that cold blanket of dirt.
Her bones rose—white roots clawing through black soil to reach the sun. Conjured with regret, she will glean the good with the guilty.
We would have salted the earth to kill the curse, but fall is the time for the harvest.
Excellent piece. I like your style – the symbolism and word choices.
Thank you!