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