LAST RITE

    A copse of willows has turned gold.

    We know our mother’s ashes 
    must be scattered here

    beneath the huddled shoulders
    of the mountain.

    And so we tiptoe across
    burbling waters of the brook,
    stare at bear-dung,
    pull aside the barbed-wire 
    and stickered branches till we feel

    surrounded by gold.

    Kneeling on ground 
    we hold hands, pray, then toss 
    this life now grayish white

    back to green and ocher, 
    sun and grass and wind-blown
    canyons, waving trees.
 

    If one must go, this is best good-bye,
    spreading nature back to itself,
    a grove of quaking statues

    pierced by tumbling waters
    that pool and pass on,

    always learning 
    how to remember.