Working With the Dead
The tines of the rake
comb through a dispersing blow.
Some heaps hold,
ocher clumps form random hillocks,
most slip through the iron teeth
dancing drunkenly away.
I was called out into the rushing air.
Physical work with the dead and dying
is indeed a calling.
Meanwhile the dead keep falling;
my arms shake a cerecloth
into the vivid swirls of an afterlife.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment