When Your Gun Is Laid To Rest

You'll be placed under the oak tree right next to Uncle Newell
beneath the stand where you set your sights on more than a few
deer walking by, sixteen points, one buck in a million doe.
I will dig the hole myself - all the beads of sweat
every tear dropped
will form a tributary to carry off my sorrow
into the waters surrounding our family's parcel.
Is this what your father wanted?
Is this where your heart rests?
It was never in your chest, judging by the size it could fit four
or five
but you always kept it for the trees fallen across the creek
or over the bridge that you built yourself.
I could never bring myself to stay there with you
it wasn't my world and it wasn't my home - there in the thicket
where the A-frame was hidden unless you knew your footing,
seventy seven paces from the bank
that's where you knew everything would be okay;
even if you didn't make the kill you still took a shot.
I've got my own gun now.
My birds fly differently than yours and my fawn will eat clover
forever with you watching from the tree tops.