Andrew Demcak
The Living
In puddle mud the morning trees floated.
The last leaves suggested an ending,
a dead sister’s long grey sleeves.
On his knees,
with a tiny hand-sized shovel,
he turned the backyard dirt.
Shamefully,
the sun came out.
Forgotten annuals,
dried umber,
were a whispering skirt.
A neighbor’s cat fled from his petting hand.
The autumn shadows had been gathering.
