The black racer you remember played dead
in the dollarweed, holding the secret of his life

as you approached, or hid in the loropetalum
you pruned each spring, as part of your normal yard upkeep—

 

he’ll be there, as will the Carolina chickadees
you’d see each fall at the feeder, caching their thousands of seeds

 

for winter in cavities of bark and tree. Don’t forget
the lowly millipedes curled up on the porch—

 

the ones you swept away, time after time,
yet they crawled back, predictably—
 

an inconvenience, but what would life be

without them, scavenging decay in spaces you’ll never go—

under logs, for example, or beneath the damp lawn thatch.

All your precious Labradors will retrieve their leashes,

tethering strong bodies to you once again.

Other friends, of course, and family will be present

in each beating heart and memory preserved

in the guest book. The young, red-shouldered hawk

you’ll know by her muted feathers, a fixture
on the post where she always perches, 

 

scans the scene of her last kill.
She’ll fly in. In space, you’ll know to listen 

 

for our grief committee chairs, the sandhill cranes,
who see it all and call the meeting, 

 

arrange tables for the lost, the newly bereaved—
in a sky of white cloths, with your mother’s silver,

gardenias for a centerpiece. They’ll bugle their flock
of mourners for you, setting every place.