When I am ready to bury you…
Early Winter Morning
When I am ready to bury you
I want the weather to cooperate.
That would be a sign of god’s grace.
I don’t want to be standing by the open grave
In a driving rain,
The umbrella fluttering querulously overhead;
Or staring at the crystals of a deep frost
Bound to the irregular clods of earth
That peek out from the edge of the blue tarp
Covering the pile that will
Be shoved on top of you by the earth mover
Cautiously concealed up the hill.
I especially don’t want a blizzard to hit
On the day l am ready bury you,
When you died too soon
And I’m asking God why he took you
And our children are looking at me, stunned,
And the pastor calls at eight in the morning
Choosing his words carefully.