Leafy limbs thrash under the bombardment
with a steely ring;
the canopy's inhabitants make no reply.
They settle into
an intoxicating stillness despite the disquieting gloom.

I walk these trails with a minute hand clenched in mine most days,
as an escape from the stresses of finger painting and early nap times.
These most basic struggles, great problems;
by the end of the stroll, we’ve solved them all,
And are content to leave this sanctuary.

This all leaves me feeling discordant because the rain facilitates
my ongoing sins
and provides an emotional alibi, isolating this soggy mire from the nearby reality of
hide-and-seek and bird watching.
It is a scapegoat for my conscience, as I bury
the manifestation of my bad business practices
and dour temper.

A wheelbarrow and shovel facilitate disposal
of the clammy, reeking shell my ferocity made.
After an hour of thrashing through the wet underbrush I find a little hollow
to pick up and put away the pieces and move on from this incident.
I chop away the flaky skin of the earth,
making a modest mausoleum for a man who aspired to a somewhat flashier
funeral service, by sending others to theirs prematurely.

Unmasking the corpse from its burlap shroud,
I go through the movements of making a man go disappear.
Whisking away the fingers, the metal patches holding his bulky frame together,
the killing eyes and ears and
damnable teeth.

This one, chipped, what school yard scrap marred it so?
The ankle’s titanium pins are remnants from our old dealings,
but did they pain him daily, or did he learn to live with it?
Did these arthritic joints impair his own long walks in the woods on business like this?
I pause, to recognize the humanity crushed under my cold industry.
Perseverance is key, though
so I’ll shovel and shutup,
and this will go away.
My usual bliss, and a set of much smaller, warmer, more innocent hands will return to these woods.