THE YOUNG PASTOR DOES HIS FIRST FUNERAL

At the cemetery the ground squished
under our feet. Huddled under umbrellas
the gathered stood shoulder to
shoulder in ranks like a mute choir.

I was new at burying.
I'd met the dead man only once
or twice, knew him only as
a face, a name. He was, I thought
so then, old. I said the words
that were expected, ended with "Amen."

Now what? I thought as silence
dripped. Slowly, breaking ranks,
the mourners turned and frog-stepped
around puddles to their cars.
The widow lingered. Watching her,
I supposed and later was to know, that
grief is mostly standing in the rain.