After Brahms’ Requiem

Den alles Fleisch,
es ist wie Gras

though not the brittle shiftings
of a parched field,

those stiff yellows
scorched to desiccation,

but the grass that leans,
restive, into crosswinds

and that beckons winter sun
to touch it gold.

Grass like his mother
praying at her sickroom window,

palms against the pane,
and blazing – 

every finger bright 
with light, or grace.