She will not grow old, our Susan,
grow feeble, grow dim, or crumble
as do eggshells or bread, nor fox
like pages in a timeworn book.
She fell the entire distance from
on her game to out of the game
forever. Doesn’t know our pain.
Left us to carry the flame, pick
through the pieces. Outdoors the wren’s
gone quiet, the blue gray. It’s set
to rain. Nothing better than rain
to ease the ache, set words to page.
Sing of love, sing of all the times
we sang together — musicked, rhymed.
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