The sky didn’t fall.

It stayed up there,
luminous, tattered with crows,
all through
January’s short days,
February’s short days.

Now the year
creeps towards March.
Damp days, grass springing.
The poplars’ bare branches
are fruited with starlings and thrushes.
The world is the body of God.
And we –
you, me, him, the starlings and thrushes –
we are all buried here,
mouths made of clay,
mouths filled with clay,
we are all buried here, singing.