and I’m still not coping

And then these thin stems,
these white fingers of fleshy
fauna, stretched forward to
peer at my face.

I was as open as a mourning
lily, but as closed as a flower
in morning -

and then these thin wrists
reached for me, in memoriam,
and realisation hit hard, like
a hard stone punch of words

resting above your final death
bed of flowers and soil and
a strangely detached epitaph -

so strange.
that these thin limbed things
should choose to grow
out of the ground where you sleep
soundless, and without the thunder
that cracked when your chest still rose
to the occasion.