There was only a little light from the pocket-holed roof
And from the gleam of droplets which fell from the
Water which had welled up in the crevices, in the nooks
Of the last holy place
Insects flourish in the kindly green of the world
And the roots that held in the stone,
The sky, for when they walked amidst
The rain of the failing, flickering light
Would reach a loving canopy and call it “home.”
There was a day, then, when She knew
The last breath was released into the chill
The last wreath, placed on a windowsill to guard against
The last painful birth, to hear a babe cry out in
The last early morning where
Feet would find the dampened ground, the morass of the spring
Which followed the winter they thought would never end…
So she carefully folded clouds into dew, molded mountains
Into barrows for the tender-hearted, for the meekly-spoken
For the kindest and most winsome of us all
She laid us to rest, covered us with a whisper of grass,
Watered us with her tears, In the quiet, misty morning
When the stillness of Earth’s last funeral came at last.