Vigil

In the old days, the dead were not 
               immediately escorted to a final 
resting place in the earth, nor lifted
              onto a funeral pyre. Their hair
was oiled and dipped in the fragrance 
             of orange groves, their faces
turned toward the high-shelved
            mountains where they would perch
in rows like figured birds— No longer on 
            the ground terraced by the farmer's 
plow but not yet in the canopy of the gods, 
            wreathed with smoke they presided  
at the house-front wrapped in blankets. 
            Coming and going, you'd feel 
it was you they held vigil for; you 
            they couldn't yet bear to leave.