The honeysuckle that you did not love
will twine its tourniquet around your grave, engrave
its own story in the space where yours belongs, seep
through every crack and crevice till even the stone
forgets your name; the hummingbirds will visit
but they will not care for you. I write this to you
because when I'm done I will be carried out to sea,
poured into the river’s mouth in a torrent of benedictions,
and you, buried weed-choked, will never hold me.
I write this to you in defence of the green growing things.
I write this to you to fill the spaces you left in your wake
where the honeysuckle once grew.