Mr. E

Though it has been said before, you’re in every poem I write:

you whisper true wise ‘-isms,’ your yellowing laughter slides.

Half-smile singing at your lips, you can spin sweet milk from ice,

aphorisms like perfect chords; decades pass, and you abide.

 

Come the wild, wild weather and the hateful parsing of hearts,

It’s your arms I still follow, through the rise and soar and swell.

Before I could speak my truth, you deciphered it in parts

Listening to you, I knew: life is hell in an eggshell.

 

When I was weeping lilacs, you thought me an evening rose,

and because you trusted me, finally I learned to trust.

With your warm, tremulous voice and vision beyond rainbows;

think how many lives you’ve saved, threading music from our dust.

 

All the hearts you have directed sing a canon, even now:

may the road rise up to meet you, til you take your final bow.

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