The bird seed is buried now
Snow tends to blanket
a myriad of sins
left to one's own questionable devices
No one saw the signs ~
rain tends to wash the truth away
like tears off a wall
carried to another frosty January field
Some monuments awaken something primal
life tends to stain its container
the memories of aging, fragmented,
broken into segments of ground forgotten
A shovel will do it nicely ~
work tends to blind
those who refuse to see
a pattern beyond dates on a calendar
Tears left behind our inattention ~
as winter tends to nothing important
Truth is diminished in daily doses
Inconsequential as birds who starve and perish
So sorry for the inconvenient question never asked ~
and those lives never saved
Fly home to rest, little bird
No tears to echo off the wall will fall in your honor
Goodbye from one who cared briefly,
but not enough
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