When Cypress Weep
Aged cypress stand tall atop a hill outside our village.
They guard the graves of those we have loved.
My mother, my brother, my son.
With each new death pallbearers,
caskets heavy on their shoulders,
lead us over cobblestone streets.
Our steps resound a communal dirge,
the scent of mourning walks with us.
As I follow in my neighbour’s funerey,
the beads on my son’s christening cap,
held close in my pocket, become my rosary.
From the church we wind through town.
As we pass, all join in the procession,
and we climb the hill together.
The journey is long,
it gives us time to grieve.
Melissa Rendlen is a pseudo retired urgent care physician who finally moved to her beloved Northwoods of Wisconsin last year. She now enjoys hiking, snow shoeing, kayaking and writing poetry. She has had work in The Missing Slate, Underfoot Poetry, Poets Reading the News, Synkroniciti, Lephemere, Nixes Mate Review and anthology to name a few.
5/1/2020 09:59:43 pm
This is very beautiful writing! You are very talented! I really Enjoyed reading this!
5/2/2020 02:27:57 pm
Thank you, Debbie. Means a lot.
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