Fertilizer

Robert J. Stinson.

A member of the 82^nd Airborne Division.

Or had been, anyways.

He lies, now, with tag on toe,

Skin punctured, pealed, eventually prodded

By the ice cold metal that hugs his back,

Much like the friends of a day

Where shards of metal dropped from the sky,

As the black of night settled on the horizon

And the brotherly, protective embrace was met

With a terror that even a tender touch could not

Alleviate.

 

The newspaper tells of a brave, kind soul

Who left a legacy, a family name that would

Continue to haunt the shady trees that line

The path that winds, dimly lit,

Toward the fields of wild

Yellows, reds and purples,

Which pop with vivacity

Against the shades of blue and gray.

Their green stems shoot

Down into the soft, forgiving soil,

Whose roots run deeper and deeper,

Ever yearning to touch the core and burn

In the fiery hell that is the natural world.

For that spark emerges from the bottomless

Caverns, consuming the decomposing matter

As it makes its way skyward,

Shouting out into the light

As a new bud sprouts.

 

A hertz rolls down the back country road.

The sound of gravel crunching under the

Black, rimmed tires fills the air.

The procession comes to a clearing,

In the center of which a lady stands,

With wrinkles that tell stories

Of love, happiness and despair.

A soft breeze dances through the lofty leaves,

And moves the tops of tulips as if an invisible

Hand were running its fingers over each and every

Bloom.

 

Bob had not wanted to be incinerated in some basement furnace,

Nor confined to a box that would become the snacks

Of mites, maggots and some unknown God.

Instead, he made an odd request to be left

To rest in a secluded nook of the countryside

That stood off of route 72.

 

Car doors clicked shut,

As black dress shoes and heels,

Brush through the knee-high grass,

Following the lady to a clearing

That housed a deep pit.

The family looked around in amazement,

As the rolling hills were fashioned into

Oil paintings, emblazoned upon their retinas,

Colors bursting, pastels contrasting with the soft

Blue and white that hung overhead.

 

“But why did he want to be buried here?

With no mark, no memory, no indication of his

Existence.”

 

She looked back at him with a smile,

Threw her arms out to her sides

Head up towards the clouds,

Knowing that she, too, would one day

Become one of the buds that danced under the sun.