We drop petals
on the water
in his memory,

as if he
and the river
were one.

We talk
about him
while the flowers float away.

How lucky we are
he died
in the river behind our house,

where the ducks he loved
waddle up the lawn.
How much better

to remember him here,
where the river whispers
he's alive!

than at the grave,
where his five years
are carved in stone,

and the hardened earth
is silent,
and grief is green

and always edged
with dying flowers;
for we know grief

is blue, like the river,
which takes our flowers
when they are fresh

and carries them away.