New poetry from Remembering the Dead
The Dead From the mist, black wagons Crest the hill. Advance Their cargos full of love, But not all; Some walk alone. At the cemetery A soft rain falls And we are glad For the warmth in the hand, later Food, the drink, the band, And sleeping in back of cabs. We look good in black. We’re happy, then we’re sad. And finger grandma’s pearls They’re real, I’m told, And shiver in the cold. At night warm In my bed, but You in the mound. The wind rages, It’s cold there, The ice coats the ground. The Dead close their eyes. I am dead. No, just asleep, A warm embrace, And love. For now, at peace.