The funeral

all is lost,

the final brush stroke,

a name chiseled in granite,

everything that's left:

particles of memory

reminders attached

to everyday things,

a yellow dress,

a few old love letters

secreted away in a drawer

and then grass,

dandelions and weeping trees,

seems cyclical

but who knows for sure,

just spiraling off into mystery

like moths to a candle flame

we stretch and flick our fingers

for a hand-hold, a place to stand

then, falling

into folded hands

of dark green

rest your head

in this warm bower

shaded by willows

from the aching sun.

-Ben Packard