Digging Zak's Grave

These hands crusted with dark
red soil have reached back
seven million years in a stroke
of spade. They also touch
yesterdays fallen leaves,
the mulch of a dozen years
of fruits and vegetables,
and this afternoon's loss.
Time means nothing we can
grasp till it is converted
to memory. Now, drenched
in sweat, I am stained by
what remains of Columbia River
lavas that covered this hill
in Miocene times. If rain
and snow can do such slow
work on rock, they will have no
trouble with the body I am
about to consign to this hole.
These hands crusted with dark
red soil have reached back
seven million years in a stroke
of spade. They also touch
yesterdays fallen leaves,
the mulch of a dozen years
of fruits and vegetables,
and this afternoon's loss.
Time means nothing we can
grasp till it is converted
to memory. Now, drenched
in sweat, I am stained by
what remains of Columbia River
lavas that covered this hill
in Miocene times. If rain
and snow can do such slow
work on rock, they will have no
trouble with the body I am
about to consign to this hole.