At Depth

I do not find it that difficult

to know anymore

what is real and what is fake.


a young mother buries her murdered

high school daughter who made the decision

to go to school that day as usual


our president played with a porn star

his wife too distracted after childbirth

to pay him proper attention


just this morning an ordinary brown and tan finch lay

defeathered, picked apart on my porch cement—

had it seen the blue sky reflected

in our glassed door and flown full flight

into solid surface? Our cat likely

finished the job because

that is what cats do with twitching feathery things.


I followed my normal practice

of handling dead small animals

gently picked up the carcass and carried it

beneath a ginkgo tree to a planter

that holds perennial lemon balm

quiet underground now in early March

and I dug out a handful of black dirt

enough to lay the body to rest, then

covered it, patted down the soil and

said a prayer:


Help me to remember

when I see you again

at depth and always

we are lemon balm in full flower.