I went to a funeral this morning for a friend’s father. So that is where this springs from.
I will never get that sound
out of my ears – the knocking
of pebbles on wood.
The first shovelfuls of dirt
fall on you – but not you –
far below the soil’s edge.
Because you – really you –
are somewhere else, or at least
that’s what we always believed.
But I really hope
that you are not floating
far above me on some island cloud.
Patiently picking at your harp with
your back sprouting wings
so newly formed the feathers are still wet.
You would hate that
and I would too,
the monotony of it all.
I like to think that you fell asleep
and woke up to bluer blues
and redder reds than you had ever seen.
That you found yourself in a world
where hope is useless
because everything is in full bloom.
But I am here (where you are not)
and here is that sound again,
as another shovelful falls.