Would you like to walk in silence
along the avenue of rose bush reverie with me, as
casual acquaintances? 
Do you see the woman, the bird lady she is called,
see how she begs for approval, stopping to wipe her
muddy hands across the apron front?  She mourns for
her flowers, her bobby pins, her cat.
She waits for permission,
from a judging voice unknown,  
to cross the road made by hands she has not washed, and
longs to join the shadowed statues along Acorn Row.
There is space available here and over there, always
space
made by thunder and plows. What a joyful world it might be 
for you to occupy…without interruption…Soldier’s Circle,
after six o’clock on Saturdays. The gardeners’ tools,
their wheelbarrows, and dirt-filled buckets are left to be
emptied after most weekends. The endless stone pavers
lead to closed houses and rooms filled with peaceful
dormancy and waylaid spite. We could sit down,
you and I in Sec. C, Row 4, between the statue of David,
and the Fountain of Forgiveness
(installed only last fall), to discuss
arrangements, finalize
your wishes…
if you’d like?