Gathering Gods
The bees gather their gods from fireweed
and tufted vetch. The crackled plate
of ice in the birdbath has melted. Slowly,
you are becoming your garden’s bones.
Skitters of brass tacks across the terrace
would fit the moment well, lending at least
a little sound. The Japanese screen of you
feels thin and opaque, your skin a fern-green veil
of egrets among the reeds. Your hyssop has ceased
to leak nectar, and so
have the asters along the well-house
left their petals like confetti spread
over the low-cropped lawn.
The plume grass you planted last spring
looks like a great blue heron grown too sharply
out of the soil, its awkward angles and chaff
reminding me of the needle in your chest,
the dirge that stings your veins.
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