The Day of the Dead

The moon drooped in the heavens.

Visible, but just slightly,

Sliding between the storm clouds

That dominated the early morning sky.

Patience was key.

Balance was everything.

Regulation, restriction,

Reclamation, redemption.

Waiting was difficult.

My arms ached.

My feet flamed.

My skin shivered.

I am a shield, screen, and sentinel.

Watching, waiting, weeping.

For one day out of the orbit of the Earth

I become wraiths’ walkway.

So visit with you forbearers,

Avoid raging ancestors,

Meet meandering manes,

Or close you mind to the chicanery of the craft.

I’m only a gateway.

One of many scattered,

None of us ever meeting,

Ever talking, and never telling.

As the sun strides

Through the thunderheads,

Gate and guardian gather

Into itself.

Dawn drinks the darkness

From the forsythia field

And I am able to anchor

Myself in the modern.

The Day of the Dead

Ends exactly equal

To the day last year

And the year before.

The veil has vanished,

Replaced by the remote

Screen, sheer but strong,

Closed by curling rays.

I relish in my release

Back to my daily deeds.

Stretching quickly shakes off sleep.

Collecting my bag, I rush to class.