Cover Crop

Small bones,

multitudes of sins -

yours, mine, together.

Boiled down for broth,

choking in our throats.

Shovel over all,

cover in this heavy earth

the carcass,

bleached by sun,

buried deep now,

better left

to insects underground.

Forgiven. Not forgotten, 

but remembered only like the refuse in the soil -

collected, composted, recycled for
our better loves to grow.

Only for our better loves to grow.