:

This garden is alive with souls.
My grandfather planted these
rose trees. My father built the greenhouses,
pulled the first tomato, cucumber, grape.
This apple was here before them all.
How many before me have plucked
from her boughs? It’s not clear
who dug the trenches, turned bricks
and mortar into walls; some pages
are badly blotted.

I see their skulls bob up and down
as huntsmen pass by. I know they’re
seated in saddles, even though their mounts
are out of view and the clip-clop of hooves
along the cobbled drive, out of sound.