As uncommon as this moon, but not so rare that time stops.
The corpse lies in state and flowers are placed on top. Words from distant keyboard warriors fill the air and are admired by their disciples. There are no tears - the spirit separated from the body long ago. Shredded pages slowly drift into the water, and dark ink bleeds to form ghost words.
The smallest flowers permeate the warm air with their heavy scent. I run through clouds of fragrance and circle back to look for the source. These jaunts are no longer straight and fast. The path resembles a string that is looped and slowly twisted back on itself. My companion is a dog who sniffs from scent to scent, understanding who was present and what happened there.
Rhythms and words are beat into fabric with each throw. Intentions are imbued into these pieces which will be given away. There are so many to make, but there may not be enough time.