Someday bones will sprout
through the lawn, like bamboo
or worms after the rain,
squeezing their wet heads
towards the sun.

Skeletal trees will grow
between the wooden ones;
new life after a fire,
a small army
dotted in and out of the shade.

Before long the white branches
would fill in and fill out,
new skin and organs poured
like wine into a balloon,
or a wineskin.

Someone ought to enjoy this,
say if they were watching
from the back porch after dinner,
the barbecue still smoking
into the evening.

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