Mud Work

A wild tom watches us from the top

of the wooden fence, a ruff of hair around

his neck like James Dean with his leather

collar turned up, looking like he wants

to cut me but settling for the disrespect

of an extended yawn. It’s a sloppy

morning, early March, mud bubbling up

around the last patches of snow, and I

suspect the cat took to the fence line

to keep his feet dry. My granddaughter

and I, however, have work to do

in the mud, and cannot afford such

squeamishness. Bill Nye, the guinea pig,

after a fitful night during which we sat

vigil, gave up the ghost just before dawn,

lay in state, briefly, during breakfast,

in his sock-lined Crocs box, and now young

Clara looks for the perfect spot

in which to plant his remains. She hasn’t

discussed her views on heaven, with me,

and does not request that prayers

be prayed over his white-and-tan form,

nor over the final resting place she chooses

under the birch tree where we have often

watched brilliant goldfinches and nuthatches

hanging upside down from its branches,

and where now we root in the dark soil

at its base. My eye on the cat hunched

on the fencepost like a raven, I tell her

we will need to dig deeply if we hope

to keep good Bill from a premature

great gettin’ up morning, and she sets

to the work like a fervent acolyte, or

like a kid up to her elbows in mud.

(from MockingHeart Review, 2017)