Festival of the Departed

    by Snipe

The doorways are decorated
with the solemn clay masks
introduced to The Island so long ago
the morning is spent in quiet meditation-
the children are asked to draw pictures
of what is important to them
while the adults
sit and write haiku
such as-

Life's a fever dream
glorious in it's wonder
our Island dreams us.

While they're writing
they contemplate the momentary perfection
of a white lily-
the flower of the dead

At noon
the household shares a meal
and the results
of their mornings reflection
Afterward
they gather up
their treasured keepsakes
and head over to the town square

The entire town has turn out
each one carrying a small
wrapped bundle
and each in turn stands before
their friends and neighbors
to share memories and stories-
told with the aid of objects
made by or held dear to
the departed

The sharing goes on
well into the night
with those that told early
bringing food and drink
to all assembled

Meanwhile-
I pack my supplies
and start my trek to the Ghost Trees
not far from my home in the Sculpted Cliffs
lies a volcanic plateau
on it's barren plain
stands a circle of nine trees-
twisted knurled creatures
with bark the color of the Moon

The trees are without leaves year round
but on this day
they hang heavy with fruit
I sit at the center of the ring
and light a fire in a brass bowl

After a time
I throw sage and sweetgrass to the flames
and begin writing poems to the deceased
these are also burnt
carrying the words on smoke
calling to the messengers

This goes on
until I am interrupted
by their arrival-
the trees bristle black blooms
a foliage of midnight feathers-

Hundreds of crows and ravens
sit and examine me with their sideways glances
They come to eat the fruit
that grows on these dead trees-
The Souls of those that have died
within the past year on The Island

They wait expectantly, knowing the ritual
I give the signal
and they descend
into a raucous feeding frenzy

I continue writing poems and burning sage
to facilitate the process,
one that is over in minutes-
the trees now stripped of their burden

I douse the flames
and pack my bag-
the birds waiting patiently,
bickering amongst themselves

Standing
I raise both arms
hands high
fingers spread-
the assembled lean in excitedly,
I fall to the ground
and the trees explode in a riot of black noise
I lay face down
not moving
until I'm sure that they're gone
I'm not allowed to see
their entrance or exit-
as per the agreement

I start the walk back home
seeing in my mind the black birds-
each carrying the Soul of a departed Islander
within it
each one having a different destination
some of the birds have a very long journey ahead
while others circle The Island
and land quietly within a town-
returning the Soul for another cycle upon The Island

On the way home
I think of all those I have known
who have passed
and the effects they have had on my life

I hold these feelings and memories close-
and then release them
into the night sky.

-Festival of the Departed-

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