(for Ralph, who crossed from life into death into life on 12/28/91, and who surely conducts choirs of angels in heaven somewhere)


Thirteen years ago
on a Saturday
we lay in bed laughing
and lounging, listening
to mourning birds sing.

In just days we knew
we would go to him,
make the final visit.
We talked of how we’d say
goodbye, find our peace.

We didn’t know yet
of the call that would
come or of tears we’d cry
at how he left too soon.
We waited too long.

They say he could not
move his last living
day but found strength enough
to push his feet apart,
together again,

to the joyful strains
of “Canon in D.”
When we buried him on
that gray New Year’s Eve, birds
gathered in silence.

In the distance, I
watched his good friend toss
rose petals on the wind,
saw angels swaying to
Pachelbel's music.

Thirteen years ago
we lay listening
to birds sing, and we thought 
it odd that joy comes midst
mourning, sorrow’s song.