(Artwork by Rick Daddario, 19 Planets)
The cemetery is full of trees. How do they dig the graves? You couldn’t get a backhoe between the trunks. Are there still gravediggers here, men with shovels making dark jokes about the things they unearth in the course of their work? I think about dying here and what it would be like to lie with my head against one set of roots and my feet against another. With a rock over my chest that told everyone my foreign name. People would walk back and forth over me, murmuring, in a tongue not my own, the first and last years I was alive. For decades I would dream my life, until the gravediggers retrieved me, held me up to the light, let the sun shine through my skull.
last frost
my footprint melted
into the soil
Red Dragonfly 
Wonderful writing, Melissa. Perfect.
Thanks so much, Mark, your opinion means a lot.
I treasure this haibun of yours, Melissa. Each word steps in and out of time. Will share this at word pond. Thanks, Donna
Thanks so much, Donna, I’m always so flattered when you include my work over at word pond! This haibun means a lot to me so I’m glad you enjoyed it.
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