she was buried the wrong

way round,

unable to stand

and look over the trees

they didn’t consider

the winter when

they laid her there,

how the northern sky

would never lighten,

how the beads strung tight

across her clavicle

would sleep dormant,

unaware of their cache

of summer colors.

her sister’s offering – who

shook and trembled at

the drum of dirt

on the coffin lid –

who was loathe to leave

her beloved in the dark

with no reminder

of sky or poppies

or the breeze skipping

sweet off the meadow after

rain.