For H.B

Under the graveyard tree, which is
nourished by the dead, and lives,
a breeze softly stokes the leaves,
each a red flag, and green.
A pile of ash keys against the wall
turns to dust, and the rain begins –

touching a white poppy in the field
under it, something waits, a crowd
A mass that moved once, and will again –
for we know what happens,
when we bury a seed