mourning splendor
Williams L. Wells

I don’t remember who sat in the twelve chairs beneath that canopy,
but I remember it was purple
and it had white trim,
and it hung limp and still.

The heat-soaked lawn was speckled
with bright yellow dandelions
that shined golden
in the high summer sun.

A spray of blood red roses and white carnations
with spears of dark green leaves
sprawled across the dark grain,
almost burgundy, mahogany top.

Pillars of gray and black-flecked granite
stared at me between slabs of white marble
that cupped bouquets of rainbow flowers and shining silver urns,
like platinum-clad soldiers with brightly plumed hats.

And everywhere there was black
and respectful deep blues
and somber dark grays,
standing or sitting with their heads bowed.

Swollen eyes were red, wrinkled cheeks were pale white,
and smooth pink faces
with red hair and freckles
bore twin sorrows of blue.

I don’t remember who sat in those twelve chairs,
the day was too vivid
with melancholy splendor,
but I know Grandpa would have liked all the color.