We trudged from the church
the birds chirping
a dirge
the sky was blue
like the day—
but I needed to renew
your life
in October I was born
from the ashes of your cigarettes
bite my nails
we all have traits
the air was decaying sweet
soft earth squelched beneath
my feet
suffocating honeysuckle perfume
wafted on the breeze
toward your tomb
I stood beneath the swing set
with no swing
breathing because I could
in the garden
I found worms
slithering silently among the ferns
yet wind chimes sparkle
in sonorous hymns
as the soil turns over
to spread your ashes
on Winter’s grave
so I sing
a strain
a familiar refrain
to remind us of September
I was born too late.