Walking on the stone paved walk, Green with moss, in this garden Within a garden, I walk towards The wise Gardener who tends to us, Sometime from near, sometime from afar.

Suddenly a shoal of angel fish rises From the depths of the pond, the surface Breaks, circles! So many circles begin To move out, each one a prayer merging One after another into the beauteous stillness.

From the rectangle of blue, a dove descends And begins to coo slowly as it hops across the yard To the birdbath. It begins to drink from the water. Sunlight flickers on the rain washed brick walls As wind opens and closes the clouds.

And knowing that you are all this And within all this: the red fish And the dove, the sun and the green moss, I still want you to sit by me on this bench, The flawless lotus next to a speckled leaf!

2003:04:06 10:30 FPC, Atlanta

First it was next to the huge window, Overlooking the city sky, framed at its ends By a money plant and a rubber plant, One you sold and the other you neglected.

Close by on the sill were candles, wine bottles and photographs. Some of them had to be turned away and some placed elsewhere. Those disapproving eyes needled you as you were doing what you did with me.

Then it was moved next to the wall, I jumped in first And all night long my back, touching the wall, was cold And my face, touching yours, was hot. But I rolled around And pushed you off the bed. Or so you claimed. I accepted.

We switched places and soon I was leaning off the edge. I was Greg Lougains about to win my first diving gold, You were my sly coach, always measuring my performance, Those doubles and triples, pushing me even when I cracked my head.

At last it ended on the other side, almost in the middle, A democratic end game with equal chances to fall off either side. Did we push each other off, finish each other off? Who fell first? Or did we cling to each other, afraid of the demons under the bed?

But this is when I notice a strange pattern, it might be just incidental, But it appears that it moved like a boat, carrying me towards the exit. Maybe your purpose was different; maybe all you wanted to do was save those few steps Before you could jump in with your latest cartographer, as both of you came rushing in.

Turn right where the Wheeler Road forks, Follow the road that runs along the Pickle Creek You might remember this but I want to be sure. The red oaks we planted along the road are now Twenty years old, the water still a couple of hours at most.

You might see a scarecrow in the fields if they had planted corn and the weathervane of the Baptist Church in the hollows beyond. The Good Lord had gone on to the city, taking with Him The whole congregation, even that bum, Toby.

Keep going, you have two more rises to climb You can look out of the window now, once in a while, Don’t have to watch the road much, there won’t be much traffic. Do you see hay rolls soaking in the rain like drifting cattle? Since the paddocks are empty of horses now, the rain falls on the red mud.

You must see the house by now, standing where the creek curves. Is it still shedding bleached rafters? Do you see a doghouse, Spit written above it in cursive?. I found Spit down the road After you left, I had to put a bullet through his head after Jim Ran over him. He was like the son we were meant to have.

Don’t dawdle around too much, it will be sad and you have work to do. The last time I was there the whole front porch was covered with blue glass, someone tore open the mesh and broke our empty bottles of Riesling. I might enclose the brass key if I find it, I never did change the locks.

It will be dark soon and you have to walk down the creek. Cottonmouths still hunt along the banks, so be careful, Better bring some rubber boots, they quarried the creek bed. It flows deeper now and I won’t be there to catch you if you slip. Walk half a mile, to get to what was the Dogwood pool.

I blasted the beaver dam downstream and the pool went with it. The dogwoods still are there though in an arc Around whose circumference we swam. Find the spike I hid in our tree hollow, into which we shouted our names, As if to add another ring of marriage to our together sound.

Use your hands or use a rusted nail if you don’t find it, Don’t take a spade, I don’t want anything from where you come To enter there. I know it can take long but you waited long too Two feet below you will hit a box, one of Thelma’s cookie boxes. Open it and release your letters, if you want.

That is how I buried you.