I know all my dead gather on these spring days
Under the ground, unreasoning,
Their restlessness a writhe of slow-waking worms
Aerating the newly-thawed earth.
All my dead gather under the crocuses,
Twist among the magnolia’s roots;
They make the greening blades of marsh and marram
Grasses shiver when south winds stop
Briefly in the afternoon. All my dead sprout
Pale tendrils in spring, as the last
Withering root vegetables in the cellar
Grow whiskery, grey. All my dead:
Those I still ache for, and those whose funerals
I would gladly attend again.