Visiting Grandpa Paul's Grave

As I arrive, the purple flowers surrounding
his stone guard against me.
I stand behind it with my arms
raised, and when I begin to speak,
the trees continue living
 
with their ordinary green, my hands keeping
the words in.
Instead, I try to force my breath past
his brass casket, but the ground is
unwilling.
I sing, as a bird with a tired voice sings,
his ears won't receive a single pitch.
I lie down and realign my body,
as if I can put his organs
in order, put light to the heart,
bind it to his wall, but except for me,
my heart refuses to beat.
 
I can not raise him,
for while my hands place themselves
on the ground, I close my eyes, giving
one last attempt to quench dry bones.
I fall back into dirt's moist hands.