Sunday, June 18, 2006

"Ceremony Without Words on St. John's Eve"

Let it take place
on a little hill,
gentle, not steep,
in the company of
a few tall hardwoods --
sycamores, tulip poplars,
cottonwoods -- such
as love nearby
running water. The time
is to be just before dusk
on St. John's Eve.
Each participant receives
a bee's wax taper tied
with fresh sprigs
of caraway thyme
and rosemary -- "that's for
remembrance." They form
a circle and join hands
silently for one minute,
after which all drink a cup
of wine, a vintage St. Julien,
and the fifty silver
balloons are released,
each bearing its small
linen packet on a red
silk string; all light
their tapers and descend
the hill as I
am scattered in fifty
directions through
the dusk of the shortest
night of the year.

(Revision: Draft II)


Blogger Unknown said...

No fair! I wrote one about death wishes lately. Now I can see it being scrapped!
I like the idea of being scattered to the winds via balloons (another way to get closer to heaven?), but I'd much prefer to be worm-food.
Even if I will pollute the ground with all the mercury.

12:36 PM  
Blogger Hedgie said...

I have serious claustrophobia, so under no circumstances whatsoever do I want to be stuck into and underneath the ground. Even dead. I'd know. I just know I'd know. *shiver*

3:34 PM  
Blogger Unknown said...

I can't remember exactly how this was presented yesterday, but it seems taller today - reaching for the clouds.

I want to die in summer too - winter seems way too, well wintry. I always feel sorry for a family at a funeral in the winter, it seems to compound the bleakness of being bereft. I like to think of fading away after a beautiful sunny day in the garden like a blousey old flower that's had it.

I hear what you're saying about knowing that you'd know. I wonder an awful lot about afterwards... much good it does!

4:06 AM  

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