Henry Walter

We saw the
Lemon slice
Moon cradle
Rocking above
The church funeral
And heard the
Mourners' songs.

We watched as
Painted carnations,
Lunar blue,
Were buoyed about
The pregnant coffin
And felt
Survivors' guilt.

We looked into
Black, lidless,
Crescent gazes
Reflecting inside
Our empty cups
And listened for
Grandpa's laugh.