A Poet's Death
My poet muse is dying, and I’m not quite ready to let him go. His words first greeted me in the dark. He uttered them in a strong voice of knowing, then reached out and shook me, told me my suffering was optional but the pain necessary. I trusted him because his poems told the rough story of a man transformed by his pain, by the voices he trusted, and by loving all the ordinary days we take for granted. I’m nearing the end of his anthology. He’s dying slowly. It’s a poet’s death ~ in and out of the hospital, still writing those poems, where he asks himself, when will the darkness give way to the light?
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