November 2nd (All Soul's Day)

As sycamore leaves fall,
and roses start their final bloom,
we make our yearly pilgrimage
to this most human garden,
careful steps, questioning hearts.
The air is crisp, and puffs of smoke accompany the prayers we sow
like incense at the altar.
A hundred marble altars and more
beckon us draw near and fall;
petitioners we are
now on our knees the grass, dull brown,
resisting,
testing our resolve
in this harvest season.

What harvest this?
This garden gives by taking, purifying
intention and memory,
parsing what was and might have been.
Look for color, consolation, cure.
The cornucopia waits at home,
near the warm hearth and the crackling fire,
but is not here.
Leave expectation and desire at the iron gate, and wait.
The liquidambars on the hill aflame, red orange glow
like candles in a sanctuary holding back the night,
but the light
is for illumination,
not for heat.

Why are we here? What do we fear?
We walk among the rows,
processing in a clerical style and nodding
to each other reverentially
as if we know.
We read the litany of names as the angelus rings
and a nightingale sings.
Why are we here? What do we hear?
Late it is, but not too late.
This place is for the living not the dead.