Shallow grave, dug up grey dirt. Window into winter. This ashy dust is nothing compared to the nutrient-dense soil of the farmland, back where I call home. This is all sand in an hourglass, bumping up against doubts of the afterlife. When I pick it up, it runs right through my fingers. But the dirt in the fields, I could feel its pulse, roll it over in my hands until it crumbled and fell on top of seeds just freshly planted, not even yet conscious of their wombs. Damp and moist dirt, promising a fruitful crop, not this dust in a New England backyard, graveyard. This church field is full of bodies and they will not grow fruitfully, but rot under brutal winter wins and a later sweltering sun. Their coffins will biodegrade and erode and warp. The air will get in. Opposite space cockpit targeting some distant star. Gone off course with no map. Dead compass. The rhythm hitch and lift of the old shovel, rusty spade and splintery wooden handle. Arms cross over the chest. No golden pharaoh.