Saturday, the Psychopomp

We walk the silver mile on the shadow road,

me in my princess dress,

and you in your blues.

I am on point and on cue when I stand

in the fields where only the marble and granite grows.

The sun blazes across the middle world,

the faint head-turning of ghosts long forgotten,

as a pastor clasps his hands together and leads the congregation

in a few lines of chorus.

But I’m holding open the circle

and weaving together the spiral offerings to the underworld.

Here in this field of the dead, I know my place.

And rise gloriously in my own power.

Flowers for the dead become tokens for the living,

whose grief is eased by the sweet scent

of community and service.

Love flows triumphantly from the cup, chalice and cauldron

of the bloodstained earth.

The earth has been freshly dug,

and tears slowly run

Into the vast chasm of sadness,

as a child tries to understand the infinity of the eternal sleep.

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