Among the trees
Is where we stand
Me and Mary
Holding hands
With all of those
Who’ve gathered ‘round
A gaping hole
In winter’s ground
A bowl is struck
And as it sings
Silence cloaks
The living beings
Then some words
A poem a letter
Nothing Nothing
Will make this better
A brother a father
A friend a son
An old old soul
And far too young
Out come the shovels
Big and small
Trembling hands
Reach for them all
First his father
Then his mother
His three sisters
They bury their brother
The hole that was
In winter’s ground
Is now replaced
With a telling mound
The living then
Turn to depart
With a gaping hole
In every heart.