A Season’s Wait

by Miles Tuason

Grandma’s remains we buried

in the cold, trampled earth

by gnarled, aging tree trunks

anguished by limbs withered

to leafless decay, where

amidst perished bough

and barren ground

lie fallen

seeds

strewn all

about, lying in wait

for sun and fair showers

knowing that in those

windblown, shriveled shells

springtime is just a season’s wait.