A Wake

Jerry Dyer

                 — with a line stolen from, and for, Gary Snyder

I come to the wake
with a rake,
a bag for fruitfall,
and prop my ladder
against
the mottled trunks of trees.

I will pick crabapples
until it grows dark,
and then will hope
that fireflies
brighten the air
enough for me to see.

At midnight,
stars will glow,
making trails for our eyes:
Cobble of milky way,
riprap, ghostly path,
a game of Go for the sky.

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