The light is fading early today.
Rain turns the whole world to night.
I drive through watery streets,
stretch to bright tapers,
blood beneath my wheels.
fill my busy day.
First, the uncut granite,
sorted and sized,
words neatly arranged,
ready to inscribe
the bare facts of your life,
and then on to the small, white house,
with its big front window and spring garden
hidden behind the black iron gate;
this is where your party will be.
Our guests will arrive soon,
and I must order flowers, great
to dim this too bright room.
Now we’re nearly finished,
but first I must see
to your final ground,
of turned earth,
and then tomorrow you can finally rest.
Attend us gently
as we weep
and slowly walk away.
(10 Dec. 2010)