Sprout
// Conor Scruton
Arrangements are cleared away
by cemetery workers April first. Lilies hang
in wicker baskets — hydrangeas linger white
like old snow by the scattering garden,
soon carried off in a golf cart past
buttercup clusters by the gate — huddled families
unfold, breathe ambers, ochres, fill lungs
vital with viridescents from every direction.