i don’t think of you lying in dark clay waiting

even though just days ago

you closed your eyes

and wouldn’t move

even though i felt your heart's last beat

and begged you and god

for just a little more of your time

i see you kneeling in your garden

with yellow flowers

dark earth in one hand, bulb in the other

chattering to me

about how glorious – and that is your word, not mine –

how glorious the bulb will, eventually, blossom

humbly unaware

or unconcerned with

your participation

in that glory.