4-24 Funeral

in the painting,
there is my mother,
and there is me.

she is wearing,
a blue knit Aran sweater,
I gave her once,
I am in a loose fit mauve tie,
my young hand,
covers her older one,
we do not touch like this often,
but the painter has pushed us,
unwillingly together,

still I am not looking at her,
she is not looking at me,
but my hand, is,
covering hers,

in her other hand,
on a green and white dress,
but you can't see that,
she is clutching tightly, with wrinkles,
around her fingers,
around her eyes,  but she doesn't look,
old,

the painter has made love with the light
of noon, giving her,
the pale, yellow, and golden browns,
to match the almost colorless blue sky above,
my knees away from hers,
are crossed in dark jeans, with faded brown leather boots,
folding chairs carry us,

it could be summer, or a wedding,
how does one tell it is a funeral?

perhaps it's because we cannot see you,
the painter.

this we mourn.