He starts at the lush oak tree,
making small circles on the lawn to a larger
Circle. I listen to the gardener mowing, sniff
The grass, the freshness from the cut,
I breathe in, and enter another garden
Of my imagination where the grass is swallowing
The white marble carvings on the bench—
Waves of the grass, like death caressing me
From human fingers.
I wake up, and see an abandoned mower.
It’s cold. Things around me are submitting to something colder.
The oak tree bursting out, the gardener
At rest, eternally. It starts snowing
From my pen— it will not fill the garden
But my throat. This white death, the reincarnation of seasons
Of larger death, I love
The choking white snow, the thrill of loss. I recall
The last green breath of grass…