Last week, as we planted
what was left of your frail body,
I peered in that deep
and neatly cut rectangle
and thought how
you never wore garden gloves,
but loved this black dirtagainst your skin.
How often, after tendingyour pale naked ladies,
a bit of earthy Kansas
showed under your nails
like a badge of courage.
Now you, brave lady,
are planted with the lilies,
and I cling to spring's promise
that death is only for a season.