Mary was eighty-eight and set in her ways.
Her stepson, my friend, arrived just in time
to pick out the casket and carry out her wishes
for a simple graveside ceremony, before leaving
on his own anniversary trip to a tropical island.
While he was away, the world at home exploded
in color and pine pollen. No rest for the wicked,
dutiful, conflicted son, but a trust for the living.
Nobody plans the distribution of losses,
the unfortunate timing, the strained generations,
though everybody plots a beautiful holiday
to celebrate some future passage in vain.
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1 comment:
Hey! I'm just browsing around random blogs I'm finding on Napowrimo and came across yours. I really like this one-- it actually resonates with my preferred style, like enjambment choices, narrative poetic, etc. Keep up the good work!
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