A birth, and a deathfor Lister Matheson
No snow, and little
to speak of this warm winter;
ochre moss in laced stars
below small knobs of dried, dun
planetary in death,
trembling in the circle of wind.
O my friend you are dead
even while all for me is reborn
long before spring
in this non-winter of brown nothing
that is even so
beautiful, from the trodden meadow path
to the slim trees grown tall,
black, and sunlit by morning's horizon.
Poetry should be heard.
Postscript: This small poem should be considered a momentary and brief snapshot in a series of poetic responses in these early days of my grandson's life. It cannot suffice as a fitting tribute or memorial to Lister, whose expanse of life, work and persona would need several volumes of momentary—and epic—responses. My thanks to Brendan for his comments, which helped me to realize that I needed to say this here in the post.