Once I found a fallen body

                  under leaves, beneath the pear,

                  kneeling at the garden’s end

                  with others in the dark.

                  I’d always feared those shadow trees,

                  the tenet of their bark,

                  their hard rust fruit with nothing

                  but the pull and barb of wasps

                  and browning apples bruised

                  and thick with slugs.

                  I shifted on the ancient moss,

                  regarded the sharp ends of grass.

                  Her wings were spread as if to touch

                  the purple edges of this place.

                  Eyelids closed, her slowing breath,

                  holding less than songs.

                  I put her in a cardboard box

                  offered up the vivid pink umbilic twists

                  of worms. Murmured drops of milk

                  as words, whispered less than prayers.

                  Far away my mother’s voice, was calling

                  to the garden’s end.

                  I thought of salvaging our lost

                  and sunlight trapped inside green glass.