From Ashes to Ashes, Through Water and Fire

Your body, Mom,
            was burned in a shock
                        of red and yellow,
swept into piles,
            and entombed in tin.
                        There I held you again.

What's left of you
            I carefully placed,
                        leaning over the edge
of the steep
            walkway overlooking
                        the falls. 

What’s left of you:
            softly sprinkled,
                        then rushing
down in
            bubbling, moving
                        water.

From here,
            looking down,
                        you are caught
on rocks,
            and transformed in
                        foam.

Mom, will God sweep your
            scattered bits and,
                        with his gentle fingers,
piece each atom together?
            Will he know where you
                        live now, with no gravestone?

You loved this
            churning spot.
                        Mom, I cannot
remain here
            forever, but
                        you will—until that day.