The squirrels don’t know any dirges
And they are not quiet with their displeasure of these.
They don’t make a difference of cemetery or wedding ceremony.
Birth comes and the child goes.
Acres covered in grass or concrete
make no indent
on their collective imagination
Only the now
and a certain future
for which they prepare
So, where in this is there room for mourning?
Seeds uneaten become trees or flowers
Seeds uneaten become food for other seeds
And the gravestones
are only a place
for momentary repose
On their hazy way