Wild: A Slow day for the Dead

I'd write that things were happening,
but happening they are not
I'm reading about rituals
on a slow day for the Dead.

It's not polite to moan, to mew
that day is slow and fading;
my rusted blue-eyes flicker
on a slow day for the Dead.

The Heat is heavy on the air
my pale lungs breathe in the sun
I fiddle with my moonstone
on a slow day for the Dead.

The trees outside are still and numb
The office full of bowing heads
The click of fingers on the keys;
 a slow day for the Dead.

A slow day for all the dead
Death for the day is slowed
The old ones go on living;
it's a slow day for the Dead.

A slow day for the Dead.