One With the Dead

I traveled that garden with the harvest moon’s rise,
Where drift in secret glass-winged butterflies,
Where towers of rich pine
(Gathered proudly in a line)
Where the marble cherubs dwell
Serve the shadows well.
Where, mystic, they watch the streamlet pass,
Marble sentinels in the autumn grass.
There is a name writ in holy stone
Housing sacred ash and bone.
An unknown memory I imagine
As I yearn to lie within
The enclosed bed; brilliant and dim
With the feast surrounding him
The infinite yawn of space
Hides my heartbeat from his face.
And though no mourners gather round
This spot of troubled ground
I stand now to define
Friendship—at long last mine.