Spring Burials
by Joel Gunderson
for Dale Gunderson
Now that the snow has melted,
the remnants of autumn’s leaves
can be found
in great patches of half-soil,
their transformation
into the earth
nearly complete.
Spring’s thaw can be felt
in the mud,
ground that a month earlier
was frozen stiff,
too brittle for burial.
So as the earth finally opens
we ready ourselves
for spring burials,
laying into the ground
the husk of what a life in love
might have meant.
The ice cracking on the pond
means that the bodies
that have been wintering
can finally be laid to rest.
Today I chased my children
in a game of tag.
Although the game
could never be fair
I gave them a head start
just so we could
all pretend together.
We do this over and over again
until the pretense becomes truth,
and I am truly too tired
to make that final
rush and lunge,
while all three of them
stand before me
victorious and beaming.
They do not yet smell
in spring’s thaw
the scent of death
though they rush
through autumn’s half rotten leaves,
scattering them everywhere
slipping in the mud
from time to time.
For my part
I play this game of tag
as long as I can hold out,
ignoring the daffodils
and other spring bulbs
that have begun to bloom,
knowing that soon
the game will end.
Spring burials
and with them
conversations half forgotten,
the memories of generations,
games of tag
and practical jokes,
a brother’s love,
a father’s touch,
all suddenly irretrievable.
In the meantime
I chase my children
through the park
breathing the cold air in
glancing at the sky
for the first signs
of sunset.
Joel Gunderson’s childhood was shaped by his parents’ revival ministry, leading the family around the world before settling in the Philippines. His spoken composition process leans into the immediacy and relationality of his father’s preaching. A two time James Beard Semifinalist, he now lives in Portland, OR where he runs restaurants, and hangs out with his wife and kids. His work has been published in The Adirondack Review, Poor Claudia, and OmniVerse.
