Here's a poem by Stephanie Han that I love. Stephanie has published her work all over; one of her short stories was chosen by Ron Carlson as the winner of a Nimrod fiction contest. She blogs at buddhafun.blogspot.com.
A Garden’s Bones
Bones shoot from the earth—
a three-pronged fork.
hard and pale white stumps—
jetties on green sea.
a sturdy skeleton buried in tufts of winter grass
hacked and sawed by the woman upstairs—
one less to water, feed or tend;
A curious sculpture these bones
kicked by a tiny boy
ringed by dirt and dried feces
for the gods to chew
for the winds to gnaw
a brittle snap
a slow decay.
Bones are phantoms spit from the glory of summer’s bush.
At night my son cries: shadows, ghosts.
Does he mean these bones?
nubs give way to stems and curved leaves
Feel the baby’s temple, the barely-hard skull
damp with the terror of light.