Preparations were being made for another souls final run.

For quietly she lay, upon a bed of spiny little thorns,

all lifeless, and broken from too many of life’s storms..

Her skin, which was once supple, was now an ashen gray.

And the time was nearing soon, to send her on her way.

For the wood had been cut and banded just two days before,

And with essence of mesquite, she will rise upon heavens door.

Children and friends milled silently about, in this sacred place of the setting sun,

Leaving simple treasures both bought, and hand made to ensure an afterlife of fun.

The sun now hung like a large persimmon on the golden mountains rim,

As the prayers and chants rose from beneath the idle chatter as the light from the sky grew dim.

With torches now lit, and hundreds on their knees in prayer,

They loosed this spirit with flames of fire from its earthly care.

Burning slowly at first, and then with a fevers pitch,

The bed of spiny thorns began to smolder and twitch.

While smoke swirled in tight circles and tossed in gentle waves,

the savor of mesquite and mother was made sure of heavens way.

For soon, the sky was a sweet and sooty white,

as mother made her way into the eternal and restful night.

J. Allen Wilson © 2004