Your death screamed
At reality
And poems broke out in song.
Your journey is over
But you mentored others
To read their moments out loud.
Your friends were proud
Childen were silent
And James Joyce's ghost bowed.
Trees
The fall leaves trace the light on the path as the maple tree looks down. I love trees. They honour me in their silent power. They have strength in their changes and gesture us to respect the present moment. I see the rain hug their trunks. I watch the wind duck or play in their arms. Their shadows map the way for birds in flight. Their lines layer nature's ego. I will plant a tree with a naming ceremony at my new home and our family will measure our memories in the seasons.
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