Peaceful the boy, his trowel full of worms.
Little graves, moist rotten leaves, glorious dirt.
Ghost arrives: fog-scent, wash-day, fingertips, girl.
Sees the boy the light play the fuzz on her neck.
She takes her place without having to ask.
Wants to know, what are their names?
Why are they wiggling like that?
He tries to explain but can’t.
Holds out his hands.
Dirt on her dress.
Finds herself blessed.
Smiles, cries, then smiles again.
Forever confessed, on the easiest terms.