November Dead

Jeff Koloze

Jesus in the Eucharist,

have mercy on me,

for merely a halfcentury

of memories are missed.


In November

I remember

one of our dead

on each rosary bead.

Leaves of red,

autumn seed,

warm light crepuscular,

cold night muscular.


The attraction of thedead

beckons with its peace,

stability in immobility;


the smell of earth onour fingers

lingers long after thewashing,


caressing the middle ofthe night

when the memory returns

of what wasaccomplished:


attempted grace in themind of God

loses its virtue fromcurrent sins;

day delves into evening.