The Undertaker’s Garden

Poetry is a mystery to me. I like some but not most. And when I do like it, I’m not usually able to say why. Here is a poem my friend’s sister-in-law, Yvonne Lieblein, wrote over the past year and read at the memorial service I wrote about last week. It’s called The Undertaker’s Garden.

There’s a sound a shovel makes
when it breaks open the earth
a muted thud as the crusty surface
splits open to reveal what’s beneath.

Sometimes I hear that sound just before
grief begins to seep from the person before me
a metallic, muddy chink lets guilt and loss
and fear of the unknown spill out.

Then, a silent pause as someone waits for me to say
I’ve seen it all before and yes, this
hole will fill up and something new
will grow there.

I don’t speak but I imagine it’s something like summer
beginning at an exact moment and expanding into a season
when we’re not paying attention.

Truth is, I’m not a tour guide.
I am a witness.

I’ve watched radishes cloak irresistible bitterness
in unapologetic red.
I’ve seen my tears inspire a pumpkin.

I’ve allowed an earthen backbeat to
ask and ask and ask
how many more times my shovel will have to dig in
until this hole is big enough to hold
everything we need it to.

How long now until I’m in the shade of my fearless sunflowers
rubbing a buttery soft lettuce leaf
between by thumb and forefinger
eyes up, heart open
ready to turn it over again?

I find that very powerful and beautiful. Again, I don’t have as strong a sense of why as I might like to. But I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the idea of unapologetically red radishes, the fact that the word “grave” does not appear anywhere in the text, and the pleasantness of shade.