Last Sunday I went to a funeral.
Q had died in her chair,
looking out her window.
Father Keith gave the eulogy.
He said, "I knew her for many years. She loved to sit
by that window, waiting
for the day to pass.
He paused, then said, "It is with amazing grace
that we may last the length of days.
For this we should give thanks."
Does he know
the insufferable ways in which days
go on and on?
I will give no thanks
to the length of days
I will lay face down
deep in dirt and weep
for the 13 Sundays that have passed
There is a woman waiting.
There is a woman wanting.
She died with that waiting.