Rain On Your Wake

Stephen Mead

A celebration tonight
for your birthday, 76th, reached nearly
in life, Mom, reached nearly despite
the last agonizing months, eight,
which the diagnosing doctors
overlooked the severity of,
& you not entirely out of mind enough,
giving it the old heave ho’s good try
with a smile to appreciate
beneath the hair net & wincing gaze…

Thus I have learned courage,
as adhered to your spine as the fungus
discovered too late amid the blood
clot havoc in that rehab which could not
rehabilitate you through the I.C.U,
or the Hospice, a fought for blessing,
bringing your grace now to this night.

Outside it is raining, Mom,
& suddenly warm for January,
a thaw in our lives, this river of grief
lavender as your roses, your irises,
your lilies, fertile in the delft
ivy twines over the oak of
& you are own beloved Beauty Sleeping.

Like a time capsule you are submitted
for some heaven on earth, submitted,
a love letter whose enchantment
we are not ignorant of,
yet with no magic key save faith
for the breaking of the spill
on this mournful voyage we fall
& heal through, perhaps just like
this drizzle is

eternity’s rice

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