The Cross
The cross sat alone
under a naked birch tree,
the grasping, bony branches
waiting for spring
to clothe them again
in verdant finery.
The grass at the base
of the cross
was sparse,
blades protruding from the dirt
at opposite angles
as if placed there by a meaning hand.
The wooden planks
collected dirt
to wear as a coat,
preserving the holy words
inscribed underneath.
The path that had
been worn to the symbol
by grieving footsteps
in the early years
after interment
was now filled in by
patchy grasses.
The nearby ground
had not shuddered
under weight
in many days.
The cross
sat alone under a tree
in the morning sun,
a sacred thought
that carried too much with it
to be made real
any longer.