LAST RITE
by David Radavich
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.