Ashes

The clouds had been there
for months. Even our faces
were gray with the storm of it,
the wind tugging our jackets
as we huddled on the pier,
invisible rain pricking our hands.
I don't know how it happened
that I ended up with the remains
of my father in my arms,
the weight of a musk melon
in a double-sealed box.
My brother and four sisters
each held a white rose,
while my mother, so small,
leaning unsteadily as if the wind
would tumble her into the river,
held two red roses, unwilling
to cast them onto the waves.
How could I have known that I
would be the one to tear open
the box that day, to let the ashes of
so many years be carried
away from us? If it wasn't
a sign that in that moment
a rainbow appeared across
the vast river, then it is still
the simple truth of what happened,
the terrible beauty of it.