She wanted to be buried
under the yellow Cajun moon
when it was full
and curious with longing,
in a white coffin
draped in cat tails
and Spanish Moss
down by the river
running wild and cool.

She wanted mourners,
four and twenty widows –
round and jolly
with bright plumed hats
and fine lace handkerchiefs
singing out of tune,
their full proud bosoms
to blow the graveyard dust away.

She wanted feasts of jambalaya
redolent of Christmas –
groaning tables
pitched across the lawn
like a crazy quilt
and mama’s old silver,
polished to blind,
strewn in the new green trees,
calling forth
the family ghosts to dance
and the guests to fill their bellies
and tell stories
of summer.

She wanted the water to rise
and the swamp to hunker
and open up
alive and wondrous
and the wind chimes on the porch
to rattle
all night

and a beautiful,
honeyskinned man
with a bright boutonniere
to lay his hands
and pray
upon the morning,
glorious and clean
with music
because he promised
she was coming home at last

and the world was starting over….