I may have to rename this part of my blog, there is nothing funny about this way to humility. I flatter myself to think Beautiful Words for a Broken Time, might be more appropriate.
The Arrangements
They call it making
arrangements--
like the thorns
piercing my heart
were connected to
roses,
as if my son was at a
florist shop
instead of a funeral
home.
Worse, I must compose
this wretched wreath myself.
The viewing, burial,
and service
for healing, closure,
and remembrance,
through talking,
embracing, and tears.
My heart, the
reluctant container,
is too broken to be
of much use.
The flowers are
memories of the past
mingled with what
might have been.
Watering is the easy part.
And when I am
done with arrangements
the hard part will
surely begin.
Planning and
paperwork over.
The display, now
dried up and tossed.
Nothing between me
and the loss.
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