A few of us linger here for a while,
near the grave,
waiting in the shade of hickory and oak,
welcoming shelter from southern skies
behind the Antioch Church of Christ.
Corn and kudzu grow dark and green
in the sheen of August sun.

The men with the backhoe
tend to the vault,
lower Dad into the clay,
loosen the straps
and pull them out.

They roll up strips of green carpet
laid to cover signs of digging,
each move stripping away
another layer of the illusion
that we were gathered here
for something other than returning
what was borrowed
from the substance of this world.

My sister and I begin,
shoveling heavy soil from the pile.
The first dirt hits the shiny metal,
scattering, sliding, spilling into the space
around the jacket of the casket,
each clump beginning its work.

My nephew,
my sons and other cousins
take their turns with shovel and spade,
each swing a prayer and a blessing,
each bending of the back
playing part in this ancient ritual
of yielding back what was taken from
and has always belonged to earth,

this planting that will one day
spring forth in jubilation,
not giving birth to that which was planted
but to that which was intended.
This is not the ending
but rather a waiting
for that final beginning.

H. Arnett
8/09/09