The sun broke through the clouds,
Playling with the gold
Embroyderies on the
Priest's cloak.
The Man of the Hour's favourite
Song playing as we all sat
Watching white flowers on
White oak, reading names on
Ribbons wishing peaceful
Rest and cherishing memories.
Mid-ceremony change in
Weather from skies gray to
Bright blue, as if clouds all
Creating passage for a soul
The size of horizons.
Few silences equal that
Of mourners
Holding hands and roses,
Hankerchiefs and pamphlets.
Whispered regrets and female
Sniffles barely audible
Over the undeniable
Absence of a
Life.
The sun warm through
Suits and dresses, and the golden
Reflection of a textile cross on the
Chapel wall, dancing with
Each movement the
Holy man made.
Silence is the language
Of Death and its matters.
It will not ever
Be silenced.
Water runs however it
Wants.
Fire can never
Be burned.