Parade of Silver Roses
"You will come to the grave in full vigor, Like the stacking of grain in its season.
— Job 5:26
Abraham breathed his last and died in a ripe old age, an old man and satisfied with life; and he was gathered to his people.
— Genesis 25:8
PARADE OF SILVER ROSES
Ripened with wrinkles and jowls of joy,
why cry over fallowed days,
when the brightness of youth
squeezes you tighter than foremost days.
Giggling, kicking at the mound of enjoyment,
the parade of silver roses laid at the grave —
that’s how the whippersnappers see you,
those tug-a-war children that hound at the heel
of your beloved grands of glockenspiel.
Supercilious satisfaction as you tether your cane
to tenderness and affection, aggressively pointing
only at those crooks who choose to lambast insane,
ruin your days and keep at arm's length the babes.
Silver in your hair, spun by hands with stigmata holes,
and you’ll breathe your last and first breath all the same.
With seasoned wheat, such golden beauty,
ecstatic at heaven’s attraction, standing in frame.
3/9/2020
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