We shuffled slowly in her direction, <br />shaking the hand or softly touching the shoulder <br />of one last seen at crowded wedding reception <br />or distant summer reunion. <br />The heavy fragrance of a tapestry <br />of rich roses, clovish carnations, and fern fronds <br />tickled our noses <br />as we advanced on the polished grain <br />of the yawning casket. <br />She wept softly, <br />hugging an awkward wellwisher <br />who fed her carefully prepared condolences <br />that did little to appease her starving spirit. <br />Taking her hand, I spoke the words, <br />but my mind questioned the somber ritual, <br />wondered at the morbid display, <br />and criticized the extravagance <br />for one no longer there. <br />Then, once again recounting his last moments, <br />she tenderly stroked back his thinning hair, <br />adjusted the skewed eyeglasses, <br />and lovingly kissed the cold forehead – <br />And I understood.<br /><br />Keith Langdon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-viewing/
