Grumblehog

The morning of my father's funeral service. Hurricane Hannah decided to drench us. The rain didn't bother me though...I know I already posted this poem a while ago but this time I have included it all. It was always one of my favorites but now it will always mean so much as this is exactly how it happened: rain was shoveled out of the sky and those who could come did so slowly and with thought.

Marengo
...

Out of the sump rise the marigolds.
From the rim of the marsh, muslin with mosquitoes,
rises the egret, in his cloud-cloth.
Through the soft rain, like mist, and mica,
the withered acres of moss begin again.

When I have to die, I would like to die
on a day of rain--
long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.

And I would like to have whatever little ceremony there might be
take place while the rain is shoveled and shoveled out of the sky,

and anyone who comes must travel, slowly and with thought,
as around the edges of the great swamp.

~Mary Oliver