Rain releases the spirit.
Perhaps snow will melt,
turn the soil muddy
to the point
of luring out galoshes.
Maybe if the weather
plays the dice right,
deluge will occupy dug holes,
the funeral will be cancelled,
the wake can go on.

There is something final
about throwing roses on palls.
For one, I know
that if he could choose,
he would have preferred cyclamens.
Perhaps he will rise to protest.
It is his funeral.