Day of the Dead, and they spring up,
some with the breaking out of ceremonial
objects from bureau drawers.
They collect on tables cleared,
tops dusted and unstacked,
laid with his tissue-thin handkerchief
or her dresser scarf.
They emerge from memories and sorrow,
the excruciating feel of the last rise of pulse beneath
one's fingers, the ragged sigh, the physical slipping
away from some torment or other.
Altars arise as fiery as autumn dawn,
candles evolving the scent that memory
assigns those who have passed
over, away, on.
Our selections, adornments, some simple
others high-church elaborate, reveal
the hows and whys and whats
of the newly or long gone,
altar pieces often saying more about
our memories and emotions
than the ones passed.
An empty flask, a pocket knife,
the book, the bell, a bowl of persimmons,
things we hold as concrete reminders,
lest memories of every ilk follow the sun
toward the year's longest night.
The season passes, the objects return
to bottom drawers, tables
just tablesthat would be empty, except for stuff we
set out to form our own altars
to express our moments,
to honor our everydays, our lives
at their most common and precious,
small gratitude for existence,
thanksgiving for being, simply that.
The color of continuance, the sound of awakening,
the scent of our particular season
these things speak to our days of living.