Bright and Cheery Orange Sweater
Amazing Grace in dirge parade.
A coffin carried with great esteem.
Bright and cheery orange sweater,
now enclosed, forever. She’s laid
to rest in an open nest, enclosed
in dour cement. Her body old,
well truthfully dead, for age no longer
matters. Arrives in heaven, composed.
Her fingers no longer gnarled, out
of her stingy wheelchair, fruitful hair,
no need for a nurse or a nightlight.
Out of the grave with a Hallelujah shout.
Truth be told, saints don’t remain -
She blinks, to her soul’s rest - in eternity.
The truth, the whole truth revealed
and relished in her Savior’s domain.
The flesh you’ll find - her body’s in the ground.
We, that live, must be able to dig up remains
to be brought to the edge, to feel the loss.
Lincoln’s son bared his dad - never a sound
did the president breathe - dead bones,
life’s rickety-rack can only be an act of God.
Our faith in inhale, exhale, and lungs and heart.
The Creator of all - life and death he owns.
Her bright and cheery orange sweater, rosary
twisted round her fingers in an open coffin,
the loud outburst of grief from her son’s lips,
are all the sights and sounds of lang syne poetry.
6/2/2022
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