White and Blue

Forgive them for thinking
that the sound of white roses thrown
reminded them of cliches and fairytales.
Thonk. Ba-dung. Donk.
“The mice ran in the pipes along the attic.”
Donk. Ba-dung. Thonk.
“The rain sheltered the funeral
as the sun and cloudless skies lied”--
it was summer when she died.
The prayer had existed,
but the requiem was never sung,
for what was the point of it
when her voice had always rung.
Years of them visiting accumulated
distance when she was alive.
And so there she was, tucked deep inside.
Never speaking, always crooning.
They celebrated the peace and calm,
yet no one had honored them.
But still she honored them,
and with love, would continue to sing
her lullaby beyond the ethereal calm.