Soil was his soul
As unforgiving
And unyielding
Harsh in winter
Gentler in the spring
But never lush

Still, he gave life
And sustenance
And was in a strange
And silent way
Sometimes even beautiful

Now he ís the soil
It's dryness briefly
Moistened by his blood
His hard hands softened by
Shrapnel and decay
Still feed a few tomatoes

Grave 2: Obituary