It's a hard thing
to lay a friend in the cold November earth.
It was in the woods on the acreage,
next to his old companion and nemesis,
laid there several years ago.
Soil was mercifully unfrozen, dry under the trees,
yet roots required axe and shovel.
Humus and clay piled to the side,
there were spruce boughs to be gathered and laid,
then armfuls of dried grass sprinkled with asters.
Carrying him out, it was hard to see the ground,
eyes clenched and overflowing.
He was laid with his old bed cloth beneath,
a penguin towel of Mother's on top,
then covered gently
with more grass, dried flowers and spruce boughs,
and finally the dark enveloping soil
(province of primordial Goddess,
creator of life, gatherer of souls, decayer of flesh).
On top, a cairn of branches and pieces of logs from the woods.
He would have loved to smell all those things.
Could he speak, what tales might he tell from the scents?
A final few boughs of spruce,
as he was entrusted to the watch of the trees,
and goodbyes said one last time.
The setting Sun carried his fire away,
leaving only the flame of his life in our memories.
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