It’s not there yet,
not today, but I know
it’s coming. A river
disappeared in Canada
over the weekend,
and it’s only April
but all the cherry
blossoms are gone.
I want to try to be
ready, find out where
she keeps the paperwork
for her memorial plan;
what it will cost to make
a pyre out of the body
before sifting the gritty
ashes from calcified bone,
which is the last to go.
But as with any work still
in progress I can’t predict
how the plot develops;
just as, walking home
in the dark, it’s hard
to tell what parts
of the garden are rich
with oxygen until
I see the fireflies’
lights go out.

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