Cemetery Sprinkler
By the time the drizzle
reaches the dead it’s a dark
cloud moving through
separate nights in shapes
of different days.
The roots they tend
grow like lightning
and sometimes I count
the seconds between
my father’s death
and his last words
breaking new ground.
The bony fingers
of timers run across
a gardener’s face,
his hands steady
with a handful
of sharpened tools.
- George Bishop