Ashes, Ashes They All Fell Down Poem by Robin Bennett

Embracing the urn filled with what
remains of my father, lay a bouquet
of white trumpets. A man's whole life
went up in smoke now reduced to ash.
Simply stored into a collector's grade urn.
Top of the line, the sales woman said.

There was something about those flowers on
that table. I picked them out myself.
I never wanted to ask Daddy what kind
of flowers he wanted. I don't think he cared
one way or the other.

My request for " in lieu of flowers" fell
upon deaf ears. Just another thing I
have to watch wither and die. Slowly
but surely.

I was never a collector, until a couple of years
ago. With my rain cloud poised stationary
over my head, bad news has rained down
on me for years. I have a set of three urns
filled with ashes now.

I never wanted the urns or the damn flowers
either. I'm alive with my own family, as the ashes
of the dead collect all around me.