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.