It begins with an exorcism

or, gardening. I no longer believe

 

in a difference. In death I watch

a spirit burst from beneath 

 

some surface, either my body’s 

or the earth’s. Above me 

 

time crawls on its white belly

like wind through the grass

 

whispering impossible questions.

I know nothing of tomorrow

 

except that it emerges 

from the dark. These hands

 

that buried their own body

in the land now tend to the soul

 

who lives in it, work in equal parts

violent and gentle. Like ghosts 

 

what blossoms from this kindness 

is a far-flung creature who lives

 

in the future, in a golden meadow

shaking off soil as if shedding skin

 

as she rises, eyes turned

in the direction of the sun.