There was no proper burial. No shroud.
The wake happened later, after the pyre
had smoldered to cinders, red hot
in the ground. Someone had set
the bier alight some time last week
in the moonlit night when
I should have been studying. Staring
out the library window, I did not notice
the first sparks. I was too busy watching crocuses
spring, right on time, from the dust.