To Yorick, in the Garden

 

the thorns, the thistles, the body

 

of rosebushes growing along the fence line.

Summer will not give

 

and the dog is digging up

rows of beds,

 

drought-driven and bare.

 

We have it backwards: tragedy

plus time is just as tragic still

 

and presses down

with the weight of heaven.

 

Blades glow like wings

cut from iron;

 

stillness grows in trees, in blood.

 

Each afternoon is a grave

so we do what we can to fill them:

 

hoe back the brush and rake the furrows clean,

watch the dog bury what’s his—

 

dead bird or antler tip—

 

and see how easily the earth takes

what it’s given.