A Place Apart

I lit the votive candle
in front of the plastic Virgin Mary,
hung with rosary beads this morning;

the morning after I buried my father.

Watched the wick lick
the air, a hot flame dot
holding in the blessing it gives.

the morning after I buried my father.

Aged furniture creaked,
musty dust filled my nose,
someone else's life,
lying loosely on bones.
The day grayed itself into the window,

the morning after I buried my father.

I mourned like the dove
singing itself into the world again,
tasting the trickle of dew,
and willed myself to walk in the daylight.

The morning after I buried my father.

(c)Nancy Powell                    07

from How Far Is Ordinary

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA