Dandelions

Are the best graveflowers;
a whole bush of them, if you will
and no charming pots or bent wires,
none of that malarkey and all that mustard pom,
among the stone – always a faery ball somewhere
and it – the boutique.
When Death takes us we are told
we evaporate into the dark, never to be anew.
we rot – that’s it, a hole of dirt,
but I see my dead in the meadows,
the camera roll, the clouds, the memories, the dreams;
the way my hands stir the pot
or how my mouth talks about things
and we lather those in perfumes and orchids,
azaleas in bouquets and tied with red and silken strings,
and roses and marigolds – dry and dusty lest we tend to it

appearance and upkeep,
a roast and wine – whenever Death…