In a graveyard I mourn my friend
I kneel by her headstone in the green grass

The headstone is constructed;
grass grows of itself

A robin chirps nearby,
a song without words,
in the unconscious, sentient forest

Humans build monuments to their dead
(animals mourn too)
What is it in me that remembers?
What was it in Frances that could remember?

Here in my knowing of her
I sense her knowing of me,
and the field of consciousness rises all around,
in the meadow of animated grass
and the unconscious, sentient forest

The pattern of actions in her life continues yet
she existed; she mattered

Her mattering is of a different mattering
to the surrounding trees,
sandy earth
and green grass

But I am glad of their vital presences 
and our mutualistic, symbiotic unknowing 

I do not know where the physical ends
and the mental begins
I do not know when unconscious 
becomes conscious

I do know that
memories of Frances
stir a buoyant sadness
in my heart

And I know that the knowing
sits apart from the feeling,
though they are wrapped up in each other