The churchyard hems the novice in.
The earth is cool, the grave is deep.
Is she asleep or listening?
The wooden casket feels her pain
now quiet but still lingering.
It tries to hold her caringly,
wraps her pale shape in gentleness
The cruel sun has chosen her
to celebrate death's thoughtfulness,
seeks out her grave. It scatters gold
with messages: hold tight! Be brave!
Yet it sends warmth, by teasing her,
a chance to feel alive again,
to urge her move her hips, her lips
to stretch her toes, to smooth her hair
get up, try her new lipstick out.
