mmmmmclxxxviii

What am I doing, in memoriam?
What I do to remember your death
is none of my business, really.  I want
to sift through pictures of you at parties—
all the rest of the attendees gather around
your throne (your edge of the big green sofa),
everyone is attractive, participatory, filled with life—
they are mixed among other colorful photographs, here

we’re at the aquarium, here we’re sipping wine at glen ellen,
and here we’ve somehow found ourselves walking a golf course,
glimpses of the ocean appear behind your vivid hair, ornate fountains 

spew arcs that are bent by a breeze I suddenly remember (flashback to

a spirited dance toward your dark straw hat that’s been blown off
the top of your head, and to me quickly stooping to scoop it up. 

i place it securely over your vivid head.  What do I do with 

such memory-soaked time?  How to best put use to such

reminiscences, to gather perspective in relation to the

present and uncertain future. To, as pleasantly as
I can, take it all in, so that I might with purpose
and grace, give my best from where I now 

exist—with an unwavering awareness 

and with utmost respect—to this, 

our own living and dying.