His nose hadn’t been that big. His face had been round,
Not sallow and oval. The hands alone were recognizable;
Their rough strength knew the way of the soil

And also the Gardener’s secret:
Casement broken, the seed is the sapling is the tree is the blossom is the apple
Is a glass of spiced cider or Nana’s last jar of preserves.

Of these nothing is lost but it’s not understood.
We step forward, unsure, are unconvinced by the makeup.
Of the two, death is the greater deceit.