Dirt and Quiet

Wet soil swallowed wood,

clumping in dark lumps and slow dust.

The sky pressed pale and hard,

a silent weight I couldn’t lift.

Hands still smelled like flowers—

cheap petals folded sharp,

crushed in pockets and grief.

The coffin sank like a slow breath,

lowered beneath the sky’s cold watch.

Uneven dirt fell steady,

a slow clatter of lost weight,

each handful a last promise,

a settling of quiet, not quite peace.

I stood too close, too far,

feeling the dirt cover me,

a thin skin breaking

beneath the soft, gray sky.