A Quiet Burial

Last night
My cricket died.
I found him
In his usual resting place
By the edge of my window
Standing stiff, upright
Dignified as a pharaoh.

There
On that same spot,
He would spend the days
In avid contemplation
Scrutinizing
My every movement
With his beady black eyes
That never close
From their meditation
A pensive monk.

Feverish musician,
No longer
Will your boisterous song
Disturb the sleep
Of the gaudy sunflowers.

No more
Will your stubborn hind-legs
Compete
With the murderous crow
At dawn.

Last night,
My cricket died.
So I picked up
The tiny corpse
And buried it
In the sand
Beneath the fig tree.

His proud antennae
Still pointed, jutting out
In a soldier's salute
Of mock farewell
As I immersed him
Beneath the grains.

–Painting: by Caspar David Friedrich