When My Time Comes for Ashes and Dust

WHEN MY TIMES COMES FOR ASHES AND DUST

Michael Coffey

When my time comes for ashes and dust

and final things said and momentary lament

let there be tears freely flowing in the congregation

and a bit of wailing for a while to get things going

and then let there be in the frankincensed aisles

of the church when the cross makes its way

past the black suits and the pressed handkerchiefs

and children fidgeting oblivious to grief rituals

– let there be a procession of drums stirring the souls

of those who still have heartbeat rhythms,

djembes and doumbecs, tree drums and rattle gourds

calling to the wildness of all the still living and all too tame

downbeats and syncopations

and finger riffs in complicated cadences

and hands red from so much music making

reminding everyone who came for me

in between the silences and the cadence

of the twisting walk through the labyrinth of life

I made some music, loving in time and in counterpoint,

but too tamed when it needed to echo the feral call of the  divine,

the ecstasy song of my paschal mystery stride through the universe.

But you breathers even in grief still have hands, fingers, and hearts

and before your final walk down the aisle in a little ashy urn

you’ve got a dancing pulse urging you to

more wildness and less cautious stillness

more drumming and less watching from a distance

more moving in your skin as God moves through you

in this percussive dance around the firelight of infinite love.