Friday, March 7, 2008

March Passing


For solemn’s sake
They wore the
Blackest black
For a day…
Twenty-four hours,
A fraction of a year.

What had been endured
Was beyond blackness,
Was charred,
Like the remains
Of the lively oak
In a Colorado wood.

They marched
In a procession
Of mourning
Mourners joyful of loss
To be able to weep
Or grow weary
With the pain
Of being left.

Imagine the majesty
Of cloaked misery
Or abject anquish
When shared with the afternoon
When pardoned by sunny hours
And captured by
A plastic rose.

The bell tolls
And what is lost
Has gone
Heavenward or hellbound.
All who remain
Are breathing shallow
Waiting to toss
Dirt on the grave,
And be done.

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