The end is warm
wrapped in white silks and black leathers
up the hill, on the grassy trail
travelers visit equipped with devoted familiar attachments;
Rundown marble time marked verses,
chosen words
late hand of death writes.
Let the rose fall six feet deep,
too the
annual grieving at the feet of the inevitable
bidding for the dawn of tomorrow,
born only to serve time.
Days that once belonged to the young and old
come together;
on the hot nights buried strangers share the Trumpet sounds in the French Quarter
and the spoken rituals of ancient seance
in the yard.