I died among the lilies,
slumbering into the dust
they were beaten back
into by the hand of winter;
awaiting their revival in
some other realm; but I
would be anew in spring
some months before them;
and as winter waned and
spring washed the stain of
death from me, I awoke a
new person; and I only
hoped it wasn’t some
sweet dream to swallow
me whole before dropping
me to the ground like rocks
thrown into the perilous sea --
a streak of red shot the sky,
painting me in the lilt of lilies.
Before I’ve even considered the knife,
soil has pressed into the last pumpkin to be picked
the faint features of a face,
one that has been turned away from the sun
all growing season. Clods of dirt engraved the eyes,
the beginnings of a nose,
the space between ridges a mouth.
I should do what the garden suggests:
plant as best as I can.
_ this is the day they will tell you
how you will die:
four horses pulling you asunder,
a long knife in the night,
poison slipped into your coffee,
or maybe just a swift kick
that sends you off a cliff,
and into heaven or hell.  

hell is more likely,
a better mirror to this world
where demons are all well-groomed,
and boldly display
their MBAs and law degrees.
the market is always bottomed-out,
and the weight of all those numbers
tumble down upon your head
for all eternity.