With the power that draws lips together
this orchard grows row by row
the way rivers around the world
bend from grief and emptiness

—you come here holding a rotted-out can
and always the dark suit
as if evenings could heal
and one by one each stone

rise up as sunlight to begin again
only this time without the winding streams
that grind the dark-blue nights
to cinders —for each stone

you ruffle its petals
till the breeze covers these graves
with feathers and leaves and upward
—sprinkled with ashes and mountainside

and from each branch
you wave your arms on their way
off the ground, on course
and the mornings just as young