Sometimes it snows
just as the cherry trees blossom,
the forsythia has bloomed,
the willows are flowing green.

The roadside Siberian squill
has delivered its flowering blueness
for the season. I mistake
its basal leaves for blades

of ordinary grass.
I’m no gardener. More
delighted by the wood ducks
as they mingle with pigeons

beside the old iron footbridge.
Someone has removed
the half-eaten rabbit
and used condom

from the trail. Merciful
for whom? There is no salinity
advisory committee
to join here. I wait

for the pedestrian one’s
answer. Do they want me?
The National Cremation Society
does, according to the mailer

I received earlier this month. Cruel?
Pragmatic? Nowhere near
as kind to the planet
as tree pod or sea

burials. When I can no longer shed
a tear, I will float for a moment

with all the other buoys
before scattering the remains
of what it meant for us
to be made of sterner stuff.