Another Shovel - P Gregory Guss

[Larry Robinson]

Another Shovel
 
 
On this Covid-of-Thanksgivings 
As the year draws down 
Bleakness penetrates our masked faces 
A shroud of our former selves 
 
Our village weave has unraveled and 
Our darkness finds our discontentment 
In limited breath 
Trying to soothe 
Holding brokenness 
 
Here I found a small and jeweled freedom-fighter 
A winged-one on the ground 
Cold, expired 
On some Pacific Flyway November patio, mine
 
As all the losses came home to roost 
As ghosts still wrapped on their gurneys, 
In every state, in every country 
Lie hampered and uncertain 
Of their transition onward 
Yet here was one more - 
 
A small bird, dead on the ground 
Bearing all the cruelty of not being able 
To draw near today to the 
Heft of reparation so needed 
To the salve that family and flock bring 
To the depth of sadness 
Of those who died in 
Foreign arms on sterile wards 
 
No union actualized 
No familiar hands of belonging 
We have to reimagine such warmth of life, 
All for another time 
 
 
	- P Gregory Guss