Something Worth Mourning

Neither tree nor forest, he says,

so we cut the wood down, lay logs

into neat corners, sturdy walls, a roof

to keep the rain out. Tall double doors

with a pointed arch, like this could be

a place of worship, worthy of

holding the entire sky within

its fallen ribs, of hosting hymns

written in laughter, in questions

with no good answers. Fill it

with sunlight and stars, with

breakfast and bourbon, baths.

Give it a name, if we're brave.

Then, at long last, when time's

the only thing left to measure:

plant seeds by the door to give love

something to grow with and mourning

a mark to follow as the seasons end.