Gathering Gods

The bees gather their gods from fireweed
and tufted vetch. The crackled plate

of ice in the birdbath has melted. Slowly,
you are becoming your garden’s bones.

Skitters of brass tacks across the terrace
would fit the moment well, lending at least

a little sound. The Japanese screen of you
feels thin and opaque, your skin a fern-green veil

of egrets among the reeds. Your hyssop has ceased
to leak nectar, and so

have the asters along the well-house
left their petals like confetti spread

over the low-cropped lawn.
The plume grass you planted last spring

looks like a great blue heron grown too sharply
out of the soil, its awkward angles and chaff

reminding me of the needle in your chest,
the dirge that stings your veins.

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