For a good friend gone too soon.

 

 

The Funeral Trees
by Liz Ciampa

High above the funeral trees, you float
Grass blades nick our ankles 
All of us, including you, watch a hole in the ground
Open up, deep and dark, beckoning, welcoming
We know you are not in that box
Even so, like puppets, we jerk through movement
Shells ourselves, our spirits reach high for you.
You are the lucky one, now strung from the sky
Like the ancient stars.  You glimmer at us
And give a platinum wink.

(Ciampa, Liz.  What is Left.  Boston, MA: Big Table Publishing Co., 2009. p. 15. Print.)