The Chill of a Gravedigger

The gravedigger hates the frosted hard earth more than death itself

It is a good that the burials were not left to him

Or he would stack them in the snow by the chapel until the ground grew soft

His spade is razor sharp and the man’s shoulders are hunched and belted with tendon

He leaves a copper tip after every death to the only maiden in town

That still serves a cup of mulled wine with a smile

They see their dead friends and family when they see him

They see the casket lowered and pale blue lips at his sight

An employed shadow

Your dead feeds him, your dead clothes him, and your dead will give him a roof

Your dead will see him soon

He would prefer not to see the frosted ground again

Until entombed he does not care


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