It's a puzzle
nothing to fret about
but what happens after dying
you're buried, you rot, that's it?
For the time allotted
my garden continues my inside out
Winter's long shadow is my me walking,
sanding still.
Two weeks remain before Christmas,
and the azaleas up front are blooming pink.
The jasmine out back
have put yellow flowers
Hundreds of crows
swarm and migrate tree to tree.
Two cardinals are fixing to nest in the jasmine
If there's more, I'm not sure I want it.
In the meanwhile,
east of the Urals,
my distant sister
mans a battalion of Tajikistan's finest.
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