Are buried
At Poet’s Corner,
Their graves within chatting distance.
And if they could but emerge
From their rest
And smell the lilac nearby
In full fragrance
Gaudy and grand in its regalia
The writers might be pleased to note
That those blossoms are
Drawing from them
Some molecular muse,
A passage from poet to plant that
Only mid-May can produce.
I stop to photograph each maker’s stone
Which are beautiful but unremarkable
Found in this cemetery
That seemingly pays lavish tribute to
Secular grandness,
Monuments that call out to the universe
For a life beyond life,
Recovering and resurrecting
The one that stopped at the stone.
The camera captures my immortal moment
With them this mid-May day.
And so, rest in peace my
Wordsmith friends,
As the lilacs
Surely will bloom again.
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