Adorned once again
in somber black,
standing in a row
all inhale an aroma
of purifying incense
from burning charcoal
inside a Thurible
flowing in coherence
with the arm of the balding priest
who prances as a peacock,
circling three times past the altar table.

Buttocks bump against
weathered and worn
relic pews.
Muscles strain to tighten hamstrings
sending messages  
telling the body to please sit.

Tears flow without
the gush that erupted a year ago.
Now the gentle drain
is like shallow
hillside waterfalls in autumn.
Grievous pain is so familiar except
the lava of volcanic emotions
has cooled.
Tissues passed from hand to hand
as those who  anticipated
the display
take care of those
sure they would not cry
or who merely denied
the tempo of the day.

Incantations dwell near the icons
splashed gloriously on the wall.
Chants to forgive sins
of the deceased
combine with pleas
for divine intervention
to elevate the Valhalla home
upward a notch or two.
Blessed wine and sacred bread
distributed to all
who keep the faith
as did the beloved son,
husband, and brother.

Thunder rolls like
rocks banging down
a mountain creek
during a downpour

Sheets of rain
blow across the lawn
as splashes bend
pink coneflowers
toward the hostas
and paved avenue
becomes a fleeting river

Bolts of light
flash through the
window evoking
fear of a strike
and the smell
of sulphur

Now the cardinal
damp from rain
reflects full sunshine
True to its name
it sits like a flame
atop the iron pole
lifting the bird feeders

Parting waves
of distant rumbles
say goodbye

He stands before her
as surveying a Renoir, overwhelmed
by red splashes from her nails, her lips
Entranced by her sparkling blue eyes
and hair swept across her shoulders
its crackle, as wind blown fields of barley
Her words cool him as though
dipped in Box Elder Creek
Her moves have the grace of cirrus skies

He thinks this is a settling place
fit to build a homestead

Twister
Demolishes town
Strangely named
Flat Gap
Ironic

I returned home

on Palm Sunday

to find knockout roses

behind my brick mailbox

parading their first blossoms of spring.

I found candytuft

faded to green,

safeguarding scattered sprinkles of white

for me to view one more day.

Fallen pink petals from dogwood trees

fluttered through a whimsical ballet

to entertain me on a ballroom floor

of Kentucky bluegrass.

Dogwoods, azalea, and periwinkle are different.
Something happened 
while I was away,
while I snapped photographs

of starfish captured by the sand

when evening tide

quickly rolled out to sea.


Blossoms opened

as other petals
faded and fell.

Fresh blossoms flowered

and youthful buds now greet the sun.
Did you care that I was gone

in the midst of your glory

to savor other beauties
different joys --
did you even miss me?

He remembers auburn hair

like the color
flickering before him

along Hwy 261.
Thoughts of yesterday

fill his mind 
on this journey.

Roan Mountain fades

as he steadies the wheel

beside the constant stream
of white hyphens
on the blacktop.

Flashes of her

blend into the mountains.
He dwells on her

and their daughter
who now flaunts ringlets

bright as the autumn patches

among the forest display.

While he’s driving
the rear view mirror
reflects 
his creased forehead

like his mother grew
from her many worries.

Travel grants him time 

to think of them.
“Mistakes were made.”

A cop-out rests in that thought:

he made mistakes.
He broods

when he’s in the driver’s seat.

Within stirs a persistent bane

birthed while on her mother’s knee,
endorsed with fiery warnings
loudly proclaimed from weekly pulpit.

Now her bones grate
against the cushion
while the rhythmic cadence
of rocking chair
runners on hardwood
breaks the dim silence


as past misdoings reverberate

on the back walls of her mind.

Disquietude prompts obsessions
she endeavors to prove invalid.
Her desire to flee

from reminders of falsehoods

and fake passions

nags her endlessly

like unforgivable sins

haunt a cloistered sister.
Neither pleas nor prayers

quell her remorseful ruminations.