Death's Bouquet

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For an outsider, there’s a kind of magic in death when it’s ritualized in New Orleans.

Death’s Bouquet
            by Odin Roark

Graves give much,
Willing wafted memories ride
The raven’s wind.

Into other air
Where spirits claim dorsal view
Floating beside trumpets jazzed,
While barefoot chil’en
Walkin’ the early talk
Stomp blues drifting skyward
Clinging to cawing beaks
Echoing wisdom’s  chorus .

Voices wale discordant grief
Beside caisson rolling through new dust
Atop cobbled history waiting
A preacher’s new launchpad.

Bellowing spirit made to wait
As chilling cloud churns music’s air
Into jasmine colored layering 
For a child’s sketchpad of crayon
Skipping across hopscotch chalk

All

Hitchin’ up-drafts
Atop silky black feathers
Passing over death’s bouquet
The fragrant moment moving on

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