Circle of the Remembered

First Funeral

We commonly visited our dead in May.
We brought them irises from our garden.
We told them family news, then left
to let them lie for another year.
That March the sun was thin as water.
Stale snow lurked in shady places.
Carpet green as Christmas wrapping
covered the brittle winter grass.
Hothouse flowers covered her coffin
balanced above the open grave.
The preacher droned his graveside words.
I squeezed my tears under my eyelids.
We left her in the March graveyard
waiting for May and an iris bouquet.

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Updated last on:  2001/05/24