Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Apr 6, 2008 9:59:56 GMT -5
The Better Place
The breeze was emptied of despair
by rains that sieved through lighted hours
in damp, unsheltered air
on drought-browned lawns and needy flowers.
The eulogies, sincerely spoken
by kinfolk and a childhood friend
(whose bonds are never broken
even when lives and lovers end),
were rich in country lore, affection,
and the low tones of real respect,
resplendent with inflection
and time-acquired intellect.
Goodbye, they said, in simple ways,
belying the complexities
of how one’s ending days
are eased by knowing that disease
won’t follow when the soul is gone,
the body cold and soon embalmed,
but memories live on
and most conflicted hearts are calmed
by knowing that it’s necessary
to let the newly dead be dead,
accepting that we bury
only the things that should be shed.
What’s left is good; the recollections
remain within the memory banks,
a place of bright affections
and, undeniably, our thanks.
The breeze was emptied of despair
by rains that sieved through lighted hours
in damp, unsheltered air
on drought-browned lawns and needy flowers.
The eulogies, sincerely spoken
by kinfolk and a childhood friend
(whose bonds are never broken
even when lives and lovers end),
were rich in country lore, affection,
and the low tones of real respect,
resplendent with inflection
and time-acquired intellect.
Goodbye, they said, in simple ways,
belying the complexities
of how one’s ending days
are eased by knowing that disease
won’t follow when the soul is gone,
the body cold and soon embalmed,
but memories live on
and most conflicted hearts are calmed
by knowing that it’s necessary
to let the newly dead be dead,
accepting that we bury
only the things that should be shed.
What’s left is good; the recollections
remain within the memory banks,
a place of bright affections
and, undeniably, our thanks.
