Moss writes the inscription
on the tree’s tombstone
well lived, generous even in death.
Goodbye My Dear Friend
He goes free of the earth.
The sun of his last day sets
clear in the sweetness of his liberty.
The earth recovers from his dying,
the hallow of his life remaining
in all his death leaves.
Radiances know him. Grown lighter
than breath, he is set free
in our remembering. Grown brighter
than vision, he goes dark
into the life of the hill
that holds his peace.
He’s hidden among all that is,
and cannot be lost.
Wendell Berry
Nearness
Tim
seeks me
in the garden
small
white
butterfly
always
hovering
nearby
Ghost
that I glimpse
from the side of my eye
Darting through blossoms
resting on leaves
taking advantage of sunshine and breeze
Pointing out a shapely cloud
waiting on my mailbox
inquisitive antenna cocked
Reminding me
as mortality
rages on
death
is not
the final stop.
