Need for Grass

Yes, there it was,
the raw mound of a grave
hungry for grass.
He had come up the hill under the dark trees
determined to be brave,
with vigor in his knees,
he knew it was there,
the center of his landscape everywhere.

He often dreamed it was not there.
He looked down at the rim
of yellow clay and knew,
he knew there was a final closing
to everything but pain,
his love in earth’s soft arms reposing
would not come back again.

There was no grass to grow over the scars
these moments stenciled upon his heart.
Without a tremor he put up the bars
to his emotion and resumed his face and hat,
a middle-aged romantic playing his part
as best he can alone. He will do that
because he knows she would expect him to.

Alone, erect, with a brisk nervous trot
he goes back to his car like me or you
showing the world mostly what he is not,
afraid to ever admit that he is afraid
of being alone, alone, alone, sad and dismayed.