If I May Ask It of the Dying, Rue Kream

 

If I May Ask It of the Dying

Tell him my foot still thrusts his shovel into soil,
Chipped edge gouging shadows for his favorite
Shade of purple.
 
Tell him the handle sits in my hand as if it were 
Born with me; the grip of his fingers, dinged-up
And dirty, cool beneath my own.
 
Tell him the irises did not come up easy, but the
Sound of metal severing each clump was an
Ice cream truck’s song honed sharp.
 
Tell him, please, the flowers grow, the earth
He lies beneath cradling each root, feeding
Beauty where it’s planted.