Some thought you knelt all day, among grave weeds.

I sat on the great gray stone and wrote

and breathed the somber lawn, glibly mowed,

and overheard what limericks spill through leaves

for hiccupping hum of sugar-drunk bees

and thirst of stumbling tongues and throats

of ruddy finch and trumpet vine. And though

we never spoke passing, you winked at me.

Nights, I sometimes trespass, keen for breath

of moonflowers: sly bawdiness of night.

More often though, I feel the press of waiting stone

left behind, and think on days made fresh:

how you dug to place violets at my side:

nonsensical nectar-close. So very close.

A Note To The Keeper Of The Arboretum After His Passing, by Caprice Garvin, was first published in Colorado Review. It has since been archived in the international academic data base, Project Muse.