Put it in a box and bury it
by the side of the house
with a few friends, a eulogy.
Soft voices and a
turning embrace.
Gone, like our grandmothers
and grandfathers. And not
coming back.
No matter how young we are inside.
How frolicking. How ready
to go to the circus.
But it’s gone. Long gone.
Giddy-up gone.
And we never took
a still moment
to say
goodbye.
entry for the ‘feel good’ poet of the year? i think the good-byes are said, sometimes silently, sometimes in icing.
people are always talking about burying boxes, and i wonder what is really buried out there. who, what and where. and, could the boxes be resold on Ebay?
“Although I could lament in the language and feelings of David for Absalom, I am constrained to say, peace to his manes. Let us weep for the living, and not for the dead.”
—Andrew Jackson, on learning of the death of his friend Judge John Overton.
not overstated. the dead had their time in the sun.
weep for those in the blue states. cheap, but couldn’t resist. only four more years until jeb!