To Dwale

Beneath that evening’s breeze the sickly sweet and brazen scent of countless flowrs awoke inside of you a darkened sleep Of dreams dug deeper than the soil. Oh, we are waking minds who missed that scent! What hope have we who wait in life, who sit and pray and watch for your next breath? Our hope can only reach for ends — To wit, to see you wake and meet a mind Too keen to weed a garden clean — For we exhaled when you breathed in that breeze and flowers wreathe your sleeping form.

Now I have told the bees about your death. And wept upon the stoop of their fine house. I’ve watered grass with wand’ring stories of Your joys and miseries. They spilled from home; They stood me right and made me eat your name Then bade me lift my eyes to stars of you.