A Funeral

Smoke traces circles in the frostbit air
From the mouth of the heathen
To cry is to bare

Muffled self-righteous prayers hum

In the aftermath of shock
Harmonizing with death’s drum

Celtic crosses glint in the icicle sunlight

Mule-like boots trudge through sno-cone mud

In hyper-somber unison they are lifted, held tight

Christian sits placid, upright, providentially

To give cause to a life well lived
His soul in God hands, but he could praise him existentially