Dust to Dust, Ashes to Ashes by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
It’s been that kind of dreadful week.
Nothing, of course,
compared to the blood
soaking Iraqi sand,
bodies tumbled from Twin Towers,
the slaughter in our streets.
Just an old poet
who lived out
her useful time.
Still, the death of my friend
diminishes me.
Bare-handed I grub
in the garden, tuck zinnias
in an empty space,
remove spent blooms
from the purple butterfly bush,
prune, water and weed.
Rubbing tears with earth-
stained fingers off cheeks
red from too much sun
I find comfort in
dirt to dirt.
