Dave:
Words have been borrowed by the token priest at the bier, and more heart-felt ones uttered by the charismatic squinting Baptist. And from what I knew of you through Steve, this would have not been neither your exit of choice, nor your chosen send off... But you loved your family --who chose to honor you in this way, their way--because you loved your family, you would have accepted that these rites were what they needed to do to go on...
More words....
In dying, we do not have to change how we live but we must let the living act on our behalf, "just in case" there is something more.
And in a time where we say, "there are no words..." or "I am at a loss for words..." I find myself uttering--somewhere--more words. Still.
And I offer you another type of epitaph... something--which in its simple end rhymes-- resembles a secular chant.
So, in borrowed lexicon, I offer you another woman's poem in the spirit of one more friendship cut short by your passing...
INCANTATION
A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.
A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.
A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.
A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.
A white hand
Waved from dark walls;
In a burnt black land
Bright waterfalls.
A bright spark
Where black ashes are;
In the smothering dark
One white star.
--Elinor Wylie (1921)
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