I think of your quiet grave now and again
When innocence has rolled me out of sleep
Close to my husband's side, to lean again
Against his breathing human side, to keep
Myself breathed in his liquid human breath.
I think of your nurturing grave so often. Death
Has made you a place I like to imagine going:
Opening the gate to your grave, entering in,
Reaping your silence where a small tree, growing
Generous in the forgiveness of your sin,
Leans over your stone, the grass, your bones, the grass,
The grass. The grass. I like to imagine frost there, hung
Like frost on a beach in November, when the sun
Rises on winter, just as it rose on spring,
On the humid decision to grow, past everything.
Spells: New and Selected Poems
Wesleyan University Press
Copyright © 2013 by Annie Finch
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission