Snow falls on the graves, dug fresh
With popsicle sticks, neat as bridges
From science class whose glue unglues
Under slight pressure, nestled
Within the sapling’s roots, shallow
And waiting for summer to descend,
Two mice, a study in living things,
For two boys who appear and disappear
Like the mice in their dens, with plans:
I will name mine Mousy, one says,
And the younger adds: mine Memousy.
Eden blossomed in the small cage
For two days. The two mice grew—
The life of mice, furtive burrowing
And the occasional small hand of god
To scoot them about the grounds—
Until they stopped, and the garden
Felt its first flush of winter grimness,
Having tasted some poison seed.
The two boys consider the graves.
I will miss my mouse, one signs
With a sniffle, and the other grabs
My hand: in summer, they are grass.