By My Father's Coffin at Graveside

And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died.
-- Robert Frost

I cannot look at it.

Above, a con trail marks the flight
of someone going far and high
into the clear cerulean blue,
so far, so high. . .

From trees nearby I hear
the cooing of a single dove
slip through the pauses
in the young priest's prayers,

and ages hence I know
I will recall the murmur of the dove
and what she sang
but nothing, nothing
of the padre's droning words
at graveside.

Mother slips her hand in mine,
trembling, delicate, and frail,
the shadow only of a grasp. . .
there is so little left
for her to cling to.

I close my eyes, and I can scent
magnolias from the trees
and roses, roses, roses
from the place I cannot look,

and I know well
that all my days I will recall
the flowers and her failing grip
but nothing, nothing
of the coffin's lonely look
at graveside.

One last amen, but still I see,
behind closed eyes, the face,
the face that Daddy wore
for all to see
until they closed the coffin lid. . .

I cannot go in peace just yet:
the face I saw was vexed,
dissatisfied,
as Frost might say,

and though I know full well
what kind of truth's inside a metaphor
and know it's both a greater and a lesser sort of truth,
I'll open eyes, and half -- or more --
expect to see him standing here
and nothing, nothing
but an empty box
at graveside.

--Warren F. O'Rourke, 2004