Out of the World There Passed a Soul

The day of my mother's funeral I spent clearing out 
her overgrown flower beds, down on my knees 
in the leaf rot, nut shells, tiny grains of sandlot sand 
spilling from the runoff gullies. The hot work was to see 
not feel what had to be done, not to go on asking, 
not to wonder anymore. Full from scraps I'd found 
at the back of the refrigerator, her mongrel dog 
lay curled on a stone and watched me work. 
It was Sunday. The telephone rang, then stopped, 
then rang again. By the end of the day, I'd done 
what I could. I swept the walk, put away the tools, 
switched on the indoor safety lamps, and then 
(it hardly matters what I think I felt) I closed 
the gate on a house where no one lived anymore.