At the End of the Funeral

from Field Stones
by Robert Kinsley

an old fat
man plays
taps
from a
chair, first
facing the casket, then
turning away,
the last
notes wavering
thin in the air
as if the day
could hardly
bear them,

and yet
we do, lifting
from here
to there
the uncertain
and surprising
weight

a man himself
uncertain,
alone in the
house of his
father gone into
the ground
before him
he sows year
after year

his sister's and
brother's children

as if his own
passions
can change
a man forever,
like woods
at night,
light rain
when the coon
will leave
its scent,
the dogs
to find it.
To emerge
from darkness
when the trail
is struck is
a way
certain
as memory,

how he
lingered on
our porch those
nights to stoop
and light
the lantern hanging,
the propane
hissing, and animal
gasping for
breath that
finally quiets
and lies
suddenly still.