the dead worm their way through glacial till

in the garden plot of home where they hunker

down and hide. Above ground, their ghosts

hover in the shimmer of light that glints

between the leafy, windblown shadows.

The living go on with the harvest and wonder

why the sweet radishes suddenly soured.

Seeking sanctuary in beans and melons,

they leave the raspberries in the briars.

It’s the battered, broken hands of the dead

that bear the bitterness of everything left unsaid.