Wood Box Waiting

Hard upon the heart in somber-suited splendor,
We stand the vigil’s end and nod a signal
To the charcoal-felted hand.
Whisper-gloved, it throws the muted switch that
Runs the hidden-rollered table toward the
Waiting furnace.

Present context ridicules our rules of proper
Conduct. A clown-like impulse, shackled to my
Silence, imagines a jump upon the bier to
Trumpet a Jazz-beat dirge to
Life Triumphant.

Instead we watch in silence as the immolation
Song rings in good and graceful pose.

She always liked a good ceremony.

Grey-molting eyes, fonder in remembrance than
Fact, well a spring-like flow. Echoes
Course in a silent memory hallway, empty
For once. Moisture in effect cancels our pretence.

There is no everlasting rest.

We choke a foggy final view as our inner eyes
Paint a contemplative scene
Of incandescent flesh reduced
To elemental earth.

Ashes to ashes.

Denser than I thought. The urn presses me down
As I cradle her against my chest.

No longer restless - She comes home again.


Stuart Andrew Marshall Tanner