The Widower, His Weeds

How he loves his patch of lawn,

grooming it with scissors

blade by stray blade.

There is no joy indifferent as his,

this half-Noah who has one of everything:

one rose, one thorn, one small bed

of onions under their new name,

ripening to make you weep.

His accent still as heavy as black bread,

he has made landfall here,

where the one poppy blushes with rage

to pronounce each petal perfectly.

It's still raining in the past,

falling in clean sheets over the rust

of old rain, slumping the mattress

flung out, scented with must.

A lone blackbird braves the polished grass,

cocking his head, straining to hear the worm

that tunnels from dark to darker,

the gardener in its debt

for the earth moved, each mouthful of dirt.

Rain after long rainfall, so light,

all that was loved being wet or dead.