Heliotrope

Heliotrope.

Today I came to the place
where I buried you.

It is a fragrant perch
and this year after all the rains
tadpoles swim against its
twisting shadow.

Wild fennel clings to the banks
of the deep-cut stream,
the water a mossy green
in the rippling hide of algae.

Wild yellow flowers too,
and white moths
weave the thickets and
surround that carriage
of death I made of you.

Fourteen letters long,
fading into faint black scars -
little bits of curled bark,
paper thin crisps you might
imagine for a potpourri.

In a few more seasons these words
will have shed their depth
on the skin of this tree.
But every year
you will die to get my attention,
and this branch will lean a little heavier
to the other bank.

Do you remember how
we used to sit in the sun
and picture the house
we would build
in the meadow of this park?

Back then, almost twenty years ago,
it felt good to be alive
even when the bees came
for your sandwich.