How dare the sun ascend

We all knew it would come.
     Someday. Always later.
It comes for us all. Sure.
           Of course.
     We know that. Someday.

But when someday draws near
     for someone you love
           whose silenced breath sears
                 your lungs with flames of grief
           and sobs so immense
     you wonder:
How dare the sun ascend?
     The stars to shine?
     Even the yeast to rise!

Who authorized the earth to turn another inch?
    Gravity itself should be suspended,
and the new moon halt in midair
     with its ghostly light exposing
           every predator’s stare.

All words—every syllable—fail and flail about
     as if comfort answers to incantation,
           as if death leaves no bruise,
     as if sorrow can be shhushhed away like
                 crows from the cornfield.

Only flesh on flesh can convey
     the pledge, to shivering hands and quivering hearts,
                 the implausible news that dust is not the end.
     Only cheek to cheek,
           and mingled tears,
                       chase back fears
     to their perditious haunt.

For the soul come undone,
                 let skin speak to skin, with hands’
           gentle brace of countenance consumed
     in doleful, woeful recoil.
The dirge will
     have its day,
           the sigh will have its say.
     But not more, not a minute
                 more, than its allotted time.

For the day lies in wait
                 when fear will be trumped,
     every tear sated, every
mournful lament yielding the floor
           to the sound of angels clogging,
                 feet pounding parquet
     in rhythmic cadence,
           whirling and twirling,
                 with shouts of delight
     and volleys of glee
                       by fiddle and banjo and bass.

The Caller of that dance
     has been known
           to raise
                 the dead.

©Ken Sehested @ On the fifth anniversary of his grandson’s birth and to commemorate the passing of a deep-souled friend.