Flowers: an Impromptu Poem

They set you in a box
on blocks of stone
on earth on Saturday.
People cried and tried
not to.  Words were said
and hands were held.
And as you went down
into the earth, I saw

One for each box
buried–for each person
passed from the earth.  And as
their seed was planted in
black earth, their husk broken
and shelled, and up–up
came the green stem, with
pain to lift their tender heads
through the half-hardened rim
of dirt to the heavens.  So you too
are not in the earth, but have
ascended through the cloud-rim
and are basking in the place
without chemotherapy or
oxygen tanks, where light is.

The flower is not in the earth
where moth and rust corrupts its
rosy face.

The flower breathes
air and touches sunlight with
outstretched petals and says
“At last.  I’ve come home.”

In Memory of Carolyn, Sandra, and Frank

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