It rained the whole time we were laying her down; Rained from church to grave when we put her down. The s** of mud at our feet was a hollow sound. When the preacher called out I held up my hand; When he called for a witness I raised my hand— d**h stops the body's work, the soul's a journeyman. The sun came out when I turned to walk away, Glared down on me as I turned and walked away— My back to my mother, leaving her where she lay. The road going home was pocked with holes, That home-going road's always full of holes; Though we slow down, time's wheel still rolls. I wander now among names of the dead: My mother's name, stone pillow for my head.