As though diseased by the rot that lies
near their roots, trees in the cemetery are
usually dead. But in April, flowers white
and small like the plates of your skull and
light and soft like the china in your hands
push themselves up from where
your body is caged. If I close my eyes
I can see your soul slipping out from
the sealed mouth of the ground,
free of time and space and decay
your sweet ghost reaching out
up and above the flowers
to meet the sun.