Funerals are Commonplace

That wasn’t my sister.
My sister would have stepped out of that box,
brushed off that wax-doll’s wig.

My sister grew flowers,
never arranged them on her bed.
She lit candles, never slept under them.

That wasn’t my sister.
She would not have noticed the angel’s hand,
being preoccupied with the living.

From the airport bus I see a pale butterfly
flying against the wind stream of traffic.
It flutters fragile wings in a wavering loop,
intermittently faltering and then proceeding.
For a short time we travel together
towards the ocean and the far distance.

Lynette M. Arden

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and her web site: Lynette Arden Poetry and Art