Memorial Day

Graves, there are so many graves.
I hate this day with trips to the cemetery
by gray and blue haired ladies.

My mother, half out of her mind,
drifts on a shape shifting sea.
Her basket of fragile reeds bumps
into reverence, then resentment and
ultimately the fear of not really knowing,
but thinking that if there is the possibility
she should put her best foot forward.

I doubt the blessed dead would take time
to even acknowledge the silly living,
so wrapped up in what makes them blind
to other realities, where the eye is on the I
and not the eye that sees beyond
this scrim into the ocean of love and mercy,
where souls carry on in golden bubbles
that bump into each other with shivers of what
we cannot know, where death is an illusion
left over from being human and everything is
just so, just so.