The Gift
I see now
that the gardener has planted flowers
around my burial mound.
Last Spring
there were yellow and white daffodils
now in autumn
those blooms have their own graves.
The old man who looked after
these green plots died.
When he was elderly he could only
recall his own yesterday's,
but now he sees us all,
knows our lives,
even those irrelevant days
that no one marked or recorded.
He recalls us, all of us,
for we remember ourselves not.
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