It Always Rains At Funerals Poem by Sonny Rainshine

It rained all morning,
and mourning reigned
behind the lowered shades,
the closed blinds,
the drawn drapes.

Even the expectant clothes
poised in the faux-cherry
armoire seemed sagging,
wet, disappointed, weary,
wearer-less.

Do the elements
notice a human death?
Does a house contract
and sigh when its occupants
give up the ghost?

Or is death
a lonely passing,
memorialized by
a relative, a friend or two?

Probably, but the drumtap
of somber rain
and the banishment of the light of day
seem to punctuate
for the living a passing from flesh
to earthy things
and to the sky.