Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

Temporary Lodgings

Incineration; it is his living wish.
The urn will be a plain oblong box,
        He will be boxed.

The wooden package will be sent
as only a temporary accommodation,
    not a place of rest or peace,
but something to be kept until poured.

This pouring will be an on-going
one taken up by a river
                  for carrying.

The current will winnow and permeate
            sift and sieve,
fish will be his filtrate,
the river rocks a million headstones
that will grind his dust finer
until the water itself eats it.

Then the empty box will be filled
with saffron, sandalwood flakes,
and dried mothwings,
          be taken back,
back into the flames
to be a thin ascending signal
of smoke
        so insubstantial
that it will be no more than
a dissolving question
  in an un-answering 
          sky.

A wispy waymark
just light enough
to ride upon the ever breathing
            breath of the wind, and
always moving onward unseen.

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