Ode

I know nothing at all

when I walk among your wispy trees,
tripping on headstones and
catching myself on
monuments to the long dead.

you are your own garden of
dates and names
knowledge unfthomable
buried and gnawed at until
it crumbled into the earth
fell into the grass
grew into the mist
that whispers at my feet--

you are still with the contentment
of life lived and
(not honoured but)acknowledged
with plastic and  tears and
tulips from the gate.

you do not ask
for proof or written confession.

you remain
like a cradle to my weeping child.
that is all I ask

and all I receive.