Orchard Burial

It was all red apples at your funeral, Randall.

A mid-November storm the night before

Tamped the thick yellow grass beneath your orchard;

There were crinkles of icy snow crusted like foam

Arrested from an early winter's tide.

Sunlight thinned the chill a little, but

It was very cold as we stood and watched the men

Carry the casket out of your front door

And bring it slowly to us and the open grave.

The bishop said-the words they always say:

In a long life you'd heard them often enough;

His robes swayed in the wind. Half hidden

The Italian painter who'd emulated you

Knelt weeping and crossing himself in the chamisa;

The rest of us kept guard with stony faces

Peculiar to our kind on such occasions.

It was soon over, and the Spanish boys

Emerged from somewhere with their taller shovels;

And then we turned away. But the thing is

Your orchard grass was studded with red apples

And on all the leafless trees red apples tossed

As though we were given a festive decoration

A triumphant celebration of silenced bells.