Bound

My cousin asked my other cousin to come bury her dead horse
and I can’t get the image out of my mind
of him standing over the giant chocolate steed,
head bowed,
praying.

In our part of Ohio the soil is a sponge in the rain –
dark, porous and alive;
while in the dry, hot summer it is a powder –
light brown and airborne.

Little cousins kick up dust in the diamond;
bigger cousins rush home with dinner after work;
the large orange sun sets over the hills around the Valley;
and they all see each other on Sunday at church.

I don’t pray on Sundays at mass
but I do think about the way the wet earth feels
planting flowers on a sticky summer Sunday night.
Such images keep me bound.

-L