The Funeral

Torch to shredded paper words
     Dried roses, still fresh carnations
Black smoke curls from sweetness lost
I, a maiden widow
     Stand in silence, grief familiar
I will not die.

Demons spit and hiss, catcalling
While silent waves lap gently at the sand
     Pulling and pushing
     Gently crushing hope
Beside me, a silent figure
My ever-present companion
I will not die.

I hesitate to send the boat to sea
The feel of skin and warmth
Chameleon eyes and strength
Love flutters in my chest
Compassion and forgiveness warms me
Death smiles, sensing victory
Filthy words and blame
     Bony fingers point
I will not die.

My foot extends to golden wood
     Now marred and scratched
Push gently, fragile cargo shaking still
I will not die.

My eyes, heavenward seek
     I have sent the prince to sea
Empty, lonely as he goes
I turn away – I cannot look
Pick up the feet, sadness an irrelevant flaw
The village waits with children growing
I will not die.

The gravel crunches as he ministers
A soothing balm, a gift, this man
My love, my God
His hand on my heart, where I hurt
He assures me
I will not die.