She swims in tumultuous
water that churns with the tides
of melancholic rage

I scoop her in cupped
hands and drag her weary body
past the rocky shore to the soil

in the rich dirt I dig
a hole big enough for her corpse-seed
and plant her.

I am an anxious gardener
I ration my Sad Water carefully
and search the ground for decay

her roots grow down without
my eyes preying upon them
in damp dark clay.

growth is a slow moving practice.
I hope she becomes a tree.