The skull in my hand
Made me understand
How fragile she was
And how hostile I had been.

Still, I have had my chance
And she had hers too.
Thus I stand here and dig
Feeling the weight of her bones
And the layers of dust
Which have grown strangely thick.

I wish I could turn back
The hands of time,
Some might say,
They would pray
For her soul.

Mine, though, would last
For only the grim hearts do so
And to try now to wake her
Would be breaking the flow
Of that beautiful air.

It would be like counting
The single leaves of grass
In this garden
So instead of this
I count dust, bones,
And I harden the layer
Which comes last in this poem.