Even the dead have their day.
Even the dead know sanctuary—
I sat myself down beneath a tree
like a cathedral ceiling, asking
the leaves to tide over me.
Lift up & walk the place, let
the rocks fill your shoes.
Nearby, the steady
sound of a rake, a giant
hand gathering
what once was green.
Who can wait
till winter, its white
straightjacket, hugging
us together tight.
from Kevin Young’s “Book of Hours“