Covering the raspberries on the Sabbath

Loss and renewal in the poetry of Shaun Griffin.

T. Shaun T. Griffin is a writer, editor and community activist living in Virginia City.
When, before a late spring snow,

my neighbor stood by fence to tell

Even God took a rest,

I pitched the shed doors open

to three tin cans,

a clay pot, and sand bucket,

scooped the lot at my breast,

then knelt to bury them

in red earth.

Now the prickly stems

were sheathed at lawn’s edge.

And given to roots that eat

from cold I shuddered:

if under the pots in my garden

were the pale shanks of olives,

not the flinty buds of berries,

I would unleash their lanky tails

on the silence of men

who have no neighbor

with whom to rest.