When I was a boy, the bayou Bonne Idee flooded. I…
So now it’s winter again yet
sunrise and sunset make us forget
so stunning the color spraying from ridges.
In the icy clear brittle blue air above,
the mountain greys like a grandmother,
death strolls close by—the mundane maudlin.
It would be fitting to go then.
But you left in summer
when sweet calves quivered on new legs,
peepers and lightning bugs surfaced at gloaming
supplying the soundtrack of summer.
The hay field was high green grace,
leaves reaching their full glory
bluebirds nesting, soft stems of new irises
waving in the wind’s parade.
Why not wait until it would be easier to let go?
I think it was to carry the color with you
in the soul’s eye,
go out on top
in the highest of high notes
wearing the beauty shroud
to remind us all our last day
will be sudden and bright.