Funeral Processions; yes, I've followed a few; led two
in the second vehicle, the family car, after the Hearse.
Yesterday on the bypass on way to the nursing home
I fell behind another; a slow, near stalling motorcade;
multiple police blue lights flashing at crossroads,
extended parade of taillight's paying homage. Then,
exit to Glory Gardens' acres and acres of Departures;
the ridge cresting crypts; roadside hugging flat stones.
Was the honored one a past friend I had forgotten?
Past is the word noting my ascension into the Present,
in which I have chosen, requested of my son, a plot;
a boundless plot unmarked, his choosing, along a creek,
a wilderness home where a discreet casting of ashes
elicits only bird hymns and fern frond's silent prayers,
and an endless cleansing by the gurgling creek
and scents of flowing seasons to converse with me.
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