memorial service
and now I think of having loved and having lost
we'll never know what it's like to never love
. . .
so fare thee well my bright star, the vanity of youth, the color of your eyes
and maybe if I'd fanned the blazing fire of your day-to-day or if I'd been older I'd been wise
too thick the heat of those long summer evenings, for a cool evening I began to yearn
but you could only feed upon the things which feed a fire
waiting to see if I would burn
fare thee well my bright star, it was a brief brilliant miracle dive
. . .
and this strange season of pain will come to pass
when the healing hands of autumn cool me down