Autumn in the Graveyard
Have you ever been to a colored funeral?
It's like Autumn in the graveyard:
Feathered Sunday hats are held high, defiant
over acorn faces, smooth with pain.
Mothers and Aunties, weak-kneed, wail
to the ground like wind blown leaves.
Mahogany patterns skirt their feet, creased by grief
and the air is crisp, scented with winter planting.
Turnips are turned, left in favor of greens.
And there is wind.
Limbs sway with cold keening for the locust,
though their songs may have interrupted dreams,
for sleepless is yet preferable to dead.
Tagged: Literature, Poem, Poems About Grief, Poetics, Poetry, Writing