Winter Burial

Grey clouds, March-heavy hung over 
an old and mottled snow that day 
we brought him there to you. 
I stepped on headstones to avoid 
the mud and deer dung just in time 
to see the grey steel box descend. 

I watched a knifing wind whirling 
a leaf into a dance over 
your name engraved in stone, 
then softly you came whirling in 
green organdy with your blond hair 
catching and falling as you danced 

to him. For him. He caught you there 
in joy’s small hand, crushing the violets 
at your waist. The earth spoke life. 
Your children came and danced around, 
bound by the cord they loathed to loose, 
yet now so far from this grey day 
you cast the pieces of your sun, 
indiscriminate and shining. 

Who can weep with all this gaiety, 
with green mud-splattered organdy 
whipping in a wind like laughter, 
violets falling on our cheeks as 
you and father with a grand indifference 
dance squarely on the stones?