Shuffling up to hug us,
one after the other,
with joyous back slaps on an otherwise
quite solemn occasion.
An old crooked hand, full of farm bent fingers
grasped a grieving man’s shoulder.
While the preacher, in his funeral suit, read from the gospels,
his head dipped in concentration,
like a boxer receiving fighting instructions
or a retired school teacher listening to a grown man
recite a poem she taught forty years ago.
So this,
this is what it means to believe,
to have the joy of the LORD,
his hand upon you.
This nodding saint, and
scholar of the fields
knows the grave will never contain him.
Bryce Alan Flurie
10.21.2009
12.13.2009
1.4.2010
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