Whistles carry through the trees
enveloping you in sound.
The trees are rotting covered in snow,
cracking from the weight.
Surrounded by bare thorny bushes,
the snow is still fresh.
There is a small spade with a deep red handle,
coated in years of dirt.
You stab at the Earth, but the ground is too hard.
So you pour hot water on it and wait.
The water bubbles and steams under the snow,
sliding and bursting through the surface.
Digging, and digging, beating at the frozen ground.
Eventually, there's a hole
but no coffin.
And the snow is covered in dirt.
I wrote this for my creative writing class, it is for Curri.
Each week I need two poems written and posted for the class.
So this is one of the two for this week.
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