my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.
i learn about sub soil, all things growing,
the logistics of death.
i tidy up, hang out washing.
demands are everyday, simple things can be priceless, and while the words pound, grind, oh make us cry, while the world is turning, there is a small hope to always return home.
just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas. remember that you stand alone. are not alone from criticism and contradiction.
beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated. empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer, who cry in dark corners.
yet i have mislaid the black beetle too.
it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.