The interment of Winter

I see a dead mockingbird under the stairs

and it looks like our friendship

with its feet pointed to heaven and it eyes

looking beyond nothing.

The sky around me fades

springtime blue to arrogant gray

while conniving bees hover before me

and whisper angry spells.

 

I stand witness

to the omnipresence of Winter's cadaver

and unabashedly mourn his demise.

His coffin is made of frail brown leaves

and frostbitten tulips

and air so hot the clay must part

to swallow me whole.

 

I remember finding

a sparrow on the sidewalk,

the one that died in the gardener's hands.

The smell of freshly cut grass

and azaleas aching to explode can't begin to deter

this loss I feel.