The urn is keeper of ashes
On the fireplace mantel,
Spirals of switch grass
And plumed wheat-tips

Adorn its ceramic glaze
Like a halo of sunflowers
Worn by the last real
Hippie in Big Sur.

One day when we have mourned
Her passing until it wafts
About sweetly piquant
As Miles Davis playing the blues,

Her remains will likely be gifted
To circadian tides, though not
For summons of Poseidon just yet;
My feet walk the floor

More surely with the proximate
Dust of her placid surface
Over deeper rushing currents,
A kind of centrifugal force

Holds every planet and moon
In slightly ever-changing orbits,
For now we know dark matter
Attracts without the pull of physics,

And in life’s and death’s rage
Set off by a spate of calmer air,
Resplendent meadowlarks collect
Fallen twigs to spin nests anyway.


Published by – The Borfski Press