Monday, June 26, 2017


There—in the place
where the freshest light
goes streaking

through still-
living oak trees'
spangled branches

and gleams
on polished stratagems
of pink marble—

where the quick ripple
of bright flags' far-off waving
corresponds neatly

with the faint sounds
of chains and ropes pinging
off slick poles of brushed aluminum—

where the plain pretty
of gullies and ridges

made by erstwhile
busy gophers
under wrought-iron fences,

the ones
far away from those
shabbier plots

in the
shadier knolls,
where the lawnmowers

can't go,
and from which crowds
of red and white lilies

reach nearly horizontally
on their thick spindly stalks,
greedy for sun—

that is the place
where I know I
shall come

to believe in
life after death;
that is—

to finally believe
in their life. After mine
is done.