The Sense

The dead are not so cold as many say.
I kissed her on the brow before
they put her in her grave.
For still, that was my mother, lying there.
The fullness of her soul was present,
standing there with me. I put my hand
upon hers, as in days of used be.
Not so very cold. No sense of dread
or endless fear. Just one last touch
upon a form grown dear within my heart
since I was born. No demons swarmed
from other worlds. No banshees screamed
or tried to hold me to some sicker standard.

It mattered not the banners on the flowers.
It only mattered they were there to blossom.
Like one last bloom upon a cheek before
they locked her in that box of stone.
I cannot understand the wish
of preservation after death.
When ashes to the wind seem
somehow much more apropos.
Flying through the skies as new life grows -
of particles that still remain particular.

The dead are not so cold as all they say.
I kissed her on the brow before
they put her in her grave.
And still, that was my mother, lying there.
The fullness of her soul was present,
standing there with me. And I felt the sense
of other worlds moving through eternity -
and me...

? Michaelette ?

7/18/2004
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .