Enter the Mausoleum

Keith Moul

For generations my neighbors committed to soil,
as did my people. We still trust our shared rituals
and deplete through passing time at death's rhythm.

This is respectful. We gather to say words of regard;
we cry, we laugh boldly, we praise the river passing.

All then exit the mausoleum,
toss ribbon-tied Floribunda from all the Cadillacs;
align them along the backroads, straight as arrows,
a path coded contrary to winds of counter intuition,
each progress hugging our fields in joyful sacrament
to our dead, never gone.

Prairie folks hold firmly to memory's fragile neck,
as if a pledged vessel, a palimpsest scoured, ready
for each celebration: still those of an age savor
the ’62 high school championship, without the wine.