Another Black Kippah

 

The trowel makes a swoosh sound,

as it enters the bucket.

Scooping up a sample,

of clay and loam.

Mother earth’s skin.

 

I let it fall

into the manmade gouge.

Where it lands

with the rat-a-tat echo,

like hail on a metal roof.

 

Process repeated.

Kaddish read 

Tears shed

Nothing, everything said,

in our silent procession,