Digging a Dog's Grave

Digging a Dog's Grave 7/15/10
Grave dirt should be hard.
Cold and frozen.
Full of rocks that grind and grate
On some solitary shovel blade.

But this spring dirt is moist
From another day's rain.
A mess of grassy roots hold it together,
Keeping a firm grip on the well-packed earth.
We laugh about the paradox
As our shovels drop in time
With the ditties on our tongues.

The bell that sadly tolls for thee
Could never toll for me.
The barks of that so distant dog
Have never reached my yard.
No cold can chill Ophelia's grave,
Nor jesters digging there.
Ophelia never sighed for me,
Nor will on doomsday meet.
Was it her tears that damped
the dirt around our dirty feet?
No.
Our feet are clean,
Our eyes are dry,
Our hearts still bear a hope.
At three feet down,
With corners square,
We rise from out the grave.
Our shovels quit,
And car doors slam,
And music plays once more.

Grave dirt should be hard.