Funeral

Holy Mother,

your stars glisten

over death and the pine box

stars descend from your hands.

The sky throws columns up around the way from the chapel to the grave.

We walk behind and through the good spirit in and out of shadows cast by

trees laying reflections

of their own boughs on the ground, before our feet.

Noon is a softer thought for the living. We relent and pause.

We stay together.

Nowhere is there more awe

of departure or some stunned apprehension

of the light that slipped away to make a raw magic of every

breath and touchable thing.