Autumn’s not colored foliage or apple picking.
For some, a harvesting or hunting Moon.
Acorns falling like a broken clock tick-tocking.
“Eulogy” in Greek means a “good word,”
quietly spoken for things and people gone.
Wax or plaster cast of a face.
A primitive, accurate photo without a camera.
Memento, or basis for a later portrait.
Eerily real, every feature, with some distortions
from the weight of plaster and death.
Death mask of the poet Dante Alighieri who wrote The Divine Comedy. He died September 13, 1320 from malaria.
A funeral rime for one who considered
spirits, drugs and zombies in his life
and whose remains in a lead coffin
journeyed from chapel to church wine cellar.
Toast a blood-red wine to his life.
PHOTO ILLUSTRATION BY ELIZABETH BROCKWAY/THE DAILY BEAST
Read more: smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/poet-samuel-taylor-coleridges-casket-rediscovered-former-wine-cellar-180968811/
I look for a red giant tonight.
A star late in its stellar evolution.
In a cloud that’s not a cloud.
How old we are. How we want
a supernova ending. How difficult is dying.
A line of cars leave the funeral
led by one sprouting too many flowers.
Driving slowly, headlights on, ignoring the stoplight,
some passengers serious and somber, others laughing.
Hopefully, all for the same mournful reasons.