(from Genesis 35:29)

my dog has turned our property into a graveyard:

from the groundhog family she massacred one by one; to the rabbit with her unlucky feet; to the stray cat who aimlessly wandered onto the wrong side of the fence;

each hand buried by shovel into the overturned ground behind our home.

to this day, old village churches are surrounded by gravestones from the time of lanterns and horse-drawn carriages.

"the best this life has to offer is to die peacefully in your sleep", they say.

which probably explains this wounded world more than anything else.

(from Matt 5:4)

1.
The woman whose husband died is back at work today.

As if the flowers aren't now burrowing down into the ground to bloom, with their roots stretching upwards to grasp at the sunlight.

2.

Should people speak to her about it?

Or figure she's sick to her gut with thinking about it and would appreciate the calm numbness of simple work and mindless conversation?

Now that the Mississippi flows northward and the seas empty into the various lakes.

3. 
She's old and so was he. 

Does that make it less tragic since he had so many years? 

Or more so since they had so many years?

Now that the clouds bring light and the sun brings the rain.