The dirty worker worked until
he couldn’t anymore, and fell.
A graven flagstone in the dirt
files his last progress report
with name and dates and “job well done,”
no mention of a loved one.
Around the moss-encrusted stone
flowers have mysteriously grown
tracing round the form beneath.
For example, there’s a wreath
of violets where I think his head
must be; more of a flower bed
springs from the “rest” of his body.

I wonder, though, how it can be
that flowers choose where they will grow
as if they knew what lay below
and even through the coffin lid
could feel not only what he did
but what kind of a man he’d been.
I shiver (after all, I’m in
a graveyard) standing at his feet,
where his bed and my body meet.
Briefly, I’m the “tallest flower”—
until I realize the hour
and think of piles of work undone,
and plots that I have not begun.