Like the Buddhist
I do not believe
in the afterlife
but on Sundays
When the bells ring
in the lonely town
of Leverett
And there are
Those I know
Burried nearby
I stop to hear
Not their dirge
Though their names
Be in it
But rather
I would like to think
Our secret pond
That one time
We swam
A car ride
For Chinese food
Or our beautiful walk
For coffee and ice cream
The back and forth
Of just you and me rocking
Moving through it all
And to call it out
As a blessing
tragically blessed.
