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.