wait up for me

Slow down! your mother cried
as the green Chrysler swerved
and fishtailed across the
snow-packed cemetery road

leading to the fresh-cut rectangle
that would cradle your father
in his bronze bed, harsh and dark
in the November afternoon

the sun pale and weak in
long November shadows,
the grave hard dug into the deep frost
of Rosehill, hard dug into the hillside.

A neighborhood cemetery,
old Oscar Peterson nearby
and Iowa Dunseth Nelson
resting just East, facing the cold sunrise.

You can see Grandma's from here,
the flat-backed Herefords scattered
along the Western slopes of close-cropped
pasture.

Grandma's, Charlie Boy, Section Five -
pastures to the West, rolling West
to the Missouri, the home place
South, behind the shelter belt.

Slow down! as we skidded over
your Mother's side of the plot,
she in no hurry to get there,
reluctant to look into that certainty,
in no hurry to bury or be buried.

We stood in the relentless November
wind, huddled in impatience,
waiting for the sun to set,
waiting for the eerie bagpipes to cease,
waiting our turn.