Your Body, a Small Paradise

68

in the season of last things, when all becomes surrender and

falling into what hands and rising into what embrace

in that season of endings then let me tend your body, a small paradise

and I the gardener with lavender sprigs to tuck behind your ears

and thyme beneath your arms, prairie lilies on your eyelids

and morning glory in your hands

And then your feet

bound in pages torn from the gospel book

and whispering

Peace, peace or Blessed are the dead or Behold, I make all things new

Then with spiced linens to wrap you and with myrrh

to anoint you

Let them let me bury you and wait for the tender green shoots

of another kingdom to flower from your grave

And promise me, promise me

that the grain which dies shall rise and I will pluck

perfumed herbs from behind your ears again