She would not have us grieve,
for words for her were transports to another reality,
their import in their content, 
their beauty in their economy.

She would not have us grieve
for she would have us say
she loved poetry, music,
photographs, her childen, and Jack.

She would not have us grieve,
for she knew sorrow flys to us 
like dust to rags
while joy is something we must make.

She would not have us grieve,
so she had us read to her,
but, at the end, the words fell
like flakes of snow on a field of winter wheat --
too cold, too cold
to drink.

She would not have us grieve,
for as she slept, she dreamed
of walking through forests
and smelling pines,
the damp odors of salmanders
as they issued from the earth,
and the scent of fresh wood shavings
on the floor of a new cabin.

She would not have us grieve,
for the day she left,
outside the corridors of the hospital,
above the roof,
beyond the atmosphere,
the planets lined up to point the way to the sun or beyond.


Brandywine
12/9/97