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
alternation
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.
