You asked me to strew your ashes

in the stream where you angled for

catfish every Sunday morning,

but I spread them in the garden

you made me turn on summer days,

as you drank and watched on the porch.

A prickly shrub has taken root

in the place where you are interred,

a bramble of roses and thorns.

Some days, I try to uproot you,

splinter my fingernails as I

shovel hands into the hard earth,

wrap fingers around rigid stalks,

wrench as tears streak my grimy cheeks,

lacerate my hands; then give up.

When I sit on the porch and drink,

I think of your smug, smiling face,

as my son crawls across the grass.

Just one more time,

I will gather

the fallen leaves

into a pile,

and when the wind

disperses them

across the yard,

I will shiver

in the still air,

and remember

my daily vow,

“let the leaves lie,

the wind will strew

them where it may.”

But the air chills,

the fall breeze taunts,

dancing coppers,

dazzling yellows,

dizzying reds,

and one more time,

to spite the wind,

I rake the leaves

and swear a vow,

this one last time.

After we serve our nighttime tours,

we’ll break our fasts and strip the taps,

swallow the rivers, swim through doors,

dance the twelve step on basement floors

and dig our graves with bottle caps.

And when the moon drowns in the trees

and we’re down to a lonely dime,

we’ll make an altar of the breeze

and pledge our love to this disease,

a vow to one day at a time.

Lying on brittle grass,

I am pulled towards

a thousand moons swimming

between a million bare branches.

I wonder,

what would it take

to knock them off their orbit?

I pick the red and yellow and orange leaves

from the ground around

the base of the birch tree

and place them in a pile.

When the wind scatters them

across the lawn, I need

to start again.

Picking them, one by one,

from the base of the tree

to the boundaries of the yard,

I carry them with care

and place them in a neat pile,

and when a breeze blows,

I cover the mound with my body,

protect them like they are my children.

This will be the last time,

I will gather the leaves

just once more,

and if the wind blows

and strews them,

then I will let them lay

where they lay,

this is the promise

I repeat to myself.

I seize and tremble

as I sit and wait for the

wind to come,

and when it does,

I watch as the leaves disperse,

reds and yellows and oranges

dancing over the top

of the pale green blades

of grass.

They taunt me with their colors,

their reds and yellows and oranges,

I want to hold them in my hand

and absorb them,

replace my pale wan skin

with their lush pigments.

Just once more, I say,

just once more I will collect them

and place them in a pile,

and watch as the wind blows

them where it may.

And so, I walk around the yard,

this one last time, my promise

to myself, and collect

the red and yellow and orange

leaves and place them

in a pile at the base

of the bare birch tree.

What if we’ve heard it all?

Everything an echo of an echo,

And we’re calling into the canyon,

To hear it again and again.

What then?

What then?