Cusp of autumn curves into winter
as weather cools this morning,
and snow pelts the Northeast
before Halloween. The Day
of the Dead draws near.

In the cemeteries of New Orleans
and the Cajun prairies, families
will bring chrysanthemums, scour headstones 
and walled crypts. Along Cane River,
candles will fill the night, adorn
whitewashed wooden markers of the poor,
daubed with painted names of their dead. 

The ashes of my sisters are scattered
to waters here and abroad, while my parents
rest within a mausoleum. Nearby, remains
of grandparents, uncles, and cousins
lie entombed above the low water table.

I will not polish marble plates or bear
fresh flowers on All Souls Day.
This Sunday, as the church year shifts
closer to Advent, I eat bread,
a Swedish rye censed with yeast.