The Colored Funeral
It's like the graveyard in autumn:
feathered Sunday hats are held high
above acorn faces smoothed with pain.
Mothers and Aunties, wail, weak-kneed
to the ground like wind blown leaves.
Creased mahogany skirts in patterns
at their feet, swirled by afternoons
crisp with the scent of earth
freshly folded over a winter crop.
And as the wind keens in the oaks -
cold hymns sung through fingers
laced in a canopy of prayer -
the cicada is finally silent.
Tagged: Literature, Poem, Poems About Grief, Poetics, Poetry, Writing