For my Father, buried this day, 1973.
Did someone say that there would be an end,
An end, Oh, an end, to love and mourning?
What has once been so interwoven cannot be raveled,
nor the gift ungiven.
Now the dead move through all of us still glowing....
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited -
only the strands grow richer with each loss
and memory makes kings and queens of us.
When all the birds have flow to some real haven,
we who find shelter in the warmth within,
Listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
As the lost human voices speak through us
and blend our complex love,
Our mourning without end.
May Sexton, All Souls
