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Return to Cups |
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Her memory hums old show tunes and ballads, history in vinyl, the old phonograph of mother. |
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The smell of warm plastic, grooves in the album, mark the end of a life, the start of another. |
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Her ghost is a wind that blows above my head, smells like suppertime and floats like a song. |
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She is in my ears with a sweet and sure voice, and its hard not to sing along. |
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Letty took too many lyrics to heart, words in country, western and blues |
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She lived them right out, self-prophesied or not, they fit her like comfortable shoes. |
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Many reached for her, but her door wouldn't budge, the pain impaired her ability to find |
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Peace for the anguish she sung of and cried for, hope for the children that she left behind. |
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In her very last days, she sat mute in her house, her lungs were empty of song |
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I dreamed the cancer ate them, note after note, because she let it define her too long. |
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The universe obscures the aerial view, to the threads that run through life's days |
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Yet we live ever hopeful of meaning and purpose with those we release and embrace. |
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Our circle completed the day that she died, when I whispered a song in her ear, |
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And was given an image of her grand complexity, in the end it was suddenly clear. |
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What is life for? To learn forgiveness and faith, to help you listen for truth from deep down. |
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Her spirit is the lesson in whispers and music in this bittersweet peaceful town. |
