Often in the graveyard
I seek the counsel of strangers
They stay in their tombs
and pay me no heed

The sun-sodden grass
is so green I feel it growing
In the shade of the yew
I sense a different kind of growth
and my heart skips a beat
seeing the rat among the bluebells
her tender pink ears
such a luminous shock

A sparrow is squawking
at the foot of an angel—
another complains
from the crook of her arm
These birds are so noisy
I’m surprised the dead
want to stay here
When I let it all go
the sound soars into song