It’s a perfect morning for what we have to do:
Bacon and coffee,
birds and sun;
white catalpa petals drifting in the breeze,
black veils fluttering on faces.
We lower the wooden box into the earth.
Children on the other side of the hedge
whirl in a circle, hand in hand,
singing a nonsense rhyme about
roses, ashes, and falling down.
The wind cries louder;
children’s voices fade,
and an old voice solemnly recites:
“There is a time to weep, a time to laugh.”
As the sun slips behind a cloud,
and a gentle rain begins to fall,
I wonder which time it is now.