funeral poem

my mother taught me that every night
two rows of cabbages
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
why then, must we see?
in the dark and peace of my final bed
there are gains for all our losses
lady, your heart has turned to dust
as i lie roofed in, screened in
out of the window a sea of green trees
brief on a flying night
will you glimmer on the sea?
backward, turn backward