Grief is a burly man
He has been shoveling manure since he was ten
His shoulders carry the **** of the world
His nostrils smell earth's fertilizer as rose
Even when we are plugging our noses and declaring offensive
Not me, though
I will sit next to him and braid **** in his hair, and then mine
I will be tempted to have him put wildflower petals on lumps of excrement
Am I a lady clothed in rose