Burial
I lie here near tree roots on
moss-laden lawn, cracked tree bark,
yellow leaves.
I am remembering you, Father--
the last time. Hospital beds are for
clinging to, and for letting go of. . .
for flying away.
And wasps fly at the base of this tree
on this summer day. Do angels
fly prone, or upright? Forward,
or backward like memory?
I turn on this summer grass, blades
pricking my belly, and I inquire
of the angels.
We all have questions of the after-life,
even the wasp, his stinger engaged.
Is he so informed?
The gray squirrel knows of these things
better than I. He flicks his tail, buries
a large seed, then scurries off.
Copyright © Carol Louise Moon | Year Posted 2021
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment