From below the low-hanging oak branches,
I feel the pull of an invisible heaven
calling
our names.
Pay no attention to the man who carries
his father’s old thermos, or the blackbirds laughing
at the existence of no one in particular,
or the defiant tulips (blind and undivided),
waving in defiance of poor nutrition and
rot-dirt living, where the ground is waterlogged,
and leaves
wait
for decay.
There is marvelous peace,
a sign
of admirable sleep and willingness,
among the feral
innocence,
the flowers and pines, the diving sparrows, the
vacationing chipmunks that rest on, against,
stones
piled in every season…
The shadows that loom are no more
than the half-lit reflections of
a lonely death’s sourpuss
reasoning.