A country funeral
Mark how the living, the loving ones gather
like clouds to bury grief in their hands, bowing
their heads in unison to console the weather.
Having waded through the waist-high grass,
they plant beside a clapboard church a coffin
in the earth from which they pray another
whitewashed cross may grow. The saving grace
they sing of never ceases to amaze them.
Sweet cornrows lend their ears. A child grips the hem
of her mother’s dress, a fragrant lupine
tucked behind the plaits of her flaxen hair.
The paddock at the end of grief is farther
than she can travel in a lifetime,
even as the crow flies, plowing
furrows in a sky, however new, beyond repair.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 36 Number 9 , on page 27
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https://newcriterion.com/issues/2018/5/a-country-funeral-9765