Because this graveyard is a hill,I must climb up to see my dead,stopping once midway to restbeside this tree.It was here, between the anticipationof exhaustion, and exhaustion,between vale and peak,my father came down to meand we climbed arm in arm to the top.He cradled the bouquet I'd brought,and 1, a good son, never mentioned his grave,erect like a door behind him.And it was here, one summer day, I sat downto read an old book.When I looked upfrom the noon-lit page, I saw a visionof a world about to come, and a world about to go.Truth is, I've not seen my fathersince he died, and, no, the deaddo not walk arm in arm with me.If I carry flowers to them, I do so without their help,the blossoms not always bright, torch-like,but often heavy as sodden newspaper.Truth is, I came here with my son one day,and we rested against this tree,and I fell asleep, and dreameda dream which, upon my boy waking me, I told.Neither of us understood.Then we went up.Even this is not accurate.Let me begin again:Between two griefs, a tree.Between my hands, white chrysanthemums, yellowchrysanthemums.The old book I finished readingI've since read again and again.And what was far grows near,and what is near grows more dear,and all of my visions and interpretationsdepend on what I see,and between my eyes is alwaysthe rain, the migrant rain.
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