Elegy vs. Lyric

What is lyric but a thread 
             embroidering the shroud of our days,
      a feather clearing mirrors of fog
for a visitation of ghosts and ancestors?  
      It's damp again tonight, which means
             our memories can leak through thin
spots in the fabric of time and find us. 
             The wind has knocked down summer-
      colored umbrellas and now their ribs,
open to the sky, are streaked with pollen.
      I am pulling on this thread 
             which reminds me: everything
      I mourn is also everything I loved,
cannot help but love; love even not knowing
      whether something will endure after  
             its passing. There are spaces 
      for rest like there are in music; 
when the rain clears, gardens open like poems.