ocean

A smooth, flat plane of rosewood
glinting in the sun
living, breathing colour
palpable newness
it looks as if the cut came only yesterday
or that it somehow polished itself
while rooted to the ground
redolent with flowers is the air
the lillies scatter
fresh, unbruised
perfection brought to life
against the rosewood--white
green
the stalks as crisp as early dawn
cut this morning
not ten minutes ago
and the flowers do not know that they are dying--
it is in this we place my mother
web of wrinkles crack her face
with none of the grace they had two days ago
and the rouge on her grey cheeks
is a bitter parody of life
it is in this we place my mother
sealing her into the ground
with youth and inexperience
flowers and rosewood.

We are so afraid to die
that we send life with the departed
putting them to earth with chattering
the noises of the young;
my mother is weary,
the flowers are vivid
the rosewood shining brightly in her tired wilting eyes
when I die
I want to be thrown into the ocean
for it is older than my mother
and has something left to teach
when I die
let me be dead
do not blind me with white and gold
pomp and circumstance
do not bore me with processions
only throw me in the ocean.