To introduce this newsletter to you I need only a very few words… My son and daughter-in-law recently lost two beloved members of their family. The first loss was their extraordinarily beautiful, gentle dog, Barli. Barli was pure joy, loyalty, love, and gratitude. It was as if she understood how much she was loved and simply wanted to return the gift, ten-fold.
Troubadour was a mighty steed. Big and bold and yet as gentle as a feather on the wind. It was as if he knew, when you sat astride his back, who and what he needed to be for you. When I rode him, I called him “gentle joy.”
Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
ALL THINGS THAT COME MUST GO
All things that come must go
rain becomes the river
the sea absorbs its flow
snow deeper than the darkest
dream becomes a puddle what
we know is now bent angles
that like branches on an ancient
tree hold on until
the wind or storm or time
defeats them into grief time
is the thief it steals
a bit of us hardens the soft
skin of us to crust
in its casual dismissal
of all flesh and bone
to dust
but
something in the riddle of our days
cannot be stolen by the pilfering
oF time that which was more
than skin and bone
softer than the shivering of sun
light between
the branches of the evergreen
sheer as the mist of starlight
drifting on the surface
of the pond or wings
of butterflies insistant
in their defiance of the wind
or maybe
just the sheer simplicity
of this
her eyes her lolling tongue
her loyalty and song of pure delight
when she caught sight of you when she knew
you knew that she was there needing only
this to consecrate herself
in bliss
or him big bold
sturdy as tree trunks yet
somehow packed within that massive
chest adorning that fine head
bright eyes a spirit bigger
than the sky
Gone?
Oh I think not…
not now not ever
love’s deathless
her song of welcome still
fills the air
he gallops with the wind
across an open trail of sky
that which becomes
like breath itself a part of us
may go but cannot die…
Susan A. Katz (All rights reserved)
