Ash Wednesday

Mom is waiting in a

black plastic box.

Eight and a half,

by six and a half,

by four and a half

-inches.

On the bookshelf.

Waiting for this

pandemic to end.

So she can join Dad

in the headwaters

of the Kaweah River.

Little brother lies

under a giant oak

in Cannock Chase.

His black lab Dyson,

seemed to know it was

the place, two years later.

The temporary urns

are approved by TSA

for carry on luggage.

I carried Carolyn

to Bangkok. With 

a 36-hour delay

at the Hong Kong

airport when the

pro democracy

protestors shut it down.

I was ok with that

but slept the first night

on the floor.

With the urn

in my knapsack,

four and a half

inches tall, just right,

to prop up my head.

They weigh more than

you might expect,

not so light as what

comes out of a fireplace

or an ashtray. Four to six

pounds for women, more for men,

you don’t forget

what you carry,

to the sea,

the mountain,

the wind,

the river. 

Somewhere

The vineyard rows

flicker past

the right side

back seat window

of the DeSoto.

Like the legs

of a giant

hundred-legged

spider running

beside the car.

The hypnotic dance

of fields and furrows

sends the boy

into a trance.

He no longer

feels the pinch

of his well-scuffed

Buster Brown shoes.

Hank Williams moans

from the front seat

about whippoorwills

too blue to fly.

He sticks his coke-sticky

hand out the window

catching the air

like a wing.

Now he flies

over the raisins

drying on long rolls

of paper between

the rows of vines.

Over the canals

of cool clear water,

the cotton and barns

and oaks,

the palms that edge

the numbered avenues,

the dark humps of lemon

and orange groves.

The sun-warmed scent

of alfalfa and the whiff

of dust trailing a tractor

fill his nose.

He circles with the vultures

over a white clapboard farmhouse

where a tabby-striped cat

lies in the shade of begonias

watching a rooster herd hens.

We’re here honey.

Where have you been?

Put on your shoes. 

Candles

If sunrise reminds us

that the world

was born in fire,

does sunset warn us

that when the sun

goes super nova,

so shall it end

as stone and embers?

Every night we light

candles before we pray

in gratitude and ask

for grace and deliverance,

blessings for our loved ones

and the world beyond our door.

Candles on the altars,

in the temples

and the churches,

in the dining rooms

of kings, and the

modesty of hovels.

For saints and the departed,

black ones for the devil.

We carry them in processions,

float them down rivers,

burn them at both ends.

When i lived on treasure island,

the electricity often failed

so we kept a lot of candles handy,

but fumed about the absence

of television and the internet.

Reading by candle light is tiring,

how did our ancesters cope?

When the power was restored,

we said hallelujah,

now we can return to reruns

of Law and Order

and the latest posts

on Facebook,

snuff those wicks

until the next time

or birthday cakes.