Thurible
A poem by Tim Bete, OCDS
Dimly-lit church,
empty except for the
strong lingering scent
of spicy-sweet smoke,
from a funeral
earlier in the day.
Gray rising clouds
no longer visible,
but their essence
left behind
along with memories
of a soul
I did not know.
Lives sputter
and ignite,
like aromatic crystals
heaped onto
red-hot coals,
souls billowing
and ascending
toward Heaven.