"He was born in the summer..."

"When you are sorrowful
look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth you are weeping
for that which has been your delight."
— Khalil Gibran

how to
process these feelings...

except
to simply feel...

to let myself flow into the waters
of love and
eddy within the space of
remembering

memories of
our daughters singing
songs about lions and kings while you
played along,

talking by the side of a river,
laughing over lunch
each year...sharing insights,
a cab..
friends,
adventures, tears...

together we called
a Rocky Mountain valley
home, and couldn't wait to 
take our
children there,
so that each year,
they'd grow up like
branches off
a single tree...
coming home to a
place they'd never been
before

mandolins, banjoes,
and steel-peddle 
guitars
were the soundtrack of
our friendship...a friendship that
transcended decades,
and mistakes,
and the common loss of
shared friends...loved ones
he will
tell new stories to sooner than
I'd hoped...

when all the tears have
fallen, and I've wept enough to
to lift and
buoy myself above the
selfish sorrow of this loss, I will
become one, again, with the River's
flow, leaving this
softly, swirling place of "remember when,"
for the sweetness of loving his family...still, and
again...
where there is
"full compensation
in the law of Love..."

and whenever a mandolin plays,
or a fiddle sweeps it's bow across the
mountain air,
i will hear his laguhter in the
song of a peddle steel
guitar
and close my eyes
while the aspen
sing 
your
song...

"rocky moutain high...
colorado..." 

keep climbing,
and I'll see you over the next
ridge...
can't wait to hear
your
stories




*the writings of Mary Baker Eddy are referenced in this poem.