A dedicated gardener should die in his garden,
doing the things that, all of these years,
have made him a dedicated gardener.
Not that he should plan for it, of course,
or make any kind of preparations,
but wouldn’t it be fortuitous
if it happened to be early March
and there were clots of daffodils all about?
Yellows always make a garden its most alive.
There’s isn’t any avoiding it, dying must be done,
but only after all the procrastination one can manage.
And dedicated gardeners must die somewhere,
and why not the garden, its best version,
the garden that’s decided that’s enough winter,
enough of colourlessness and bare tree limbs?
The garden that’s in a happy state of resurrection,
floral faces pushing up through soft earth.
Imagine him now, the sky Kandinsky blue
as he abruptly drops a watering can or clippers
and clutches his heart and then keels over.
Don’t turn away. Look at him, sprawled out
there, sunlight settling on his face and arms.
It’s okay, allow it, feel happy for him.
It’s not the least bit inappropriate.