A Benediction

"...we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
and our little life is rounded with a sleep..."
-The Tempest

Skeletons had more color than you.

I watched you die slowly, a 2-hour vigil
to help the part of you still left, 
still retaining memory, still listening
to faint voices in the glass-blown sunlight
leave more peacefully.  We all made it,
those who could, those who meant
something to you, those who could speak
for those who meant just as much to you.

I read you Shakespeare, fitting in the Prospero
speech, as good a thing as can be said
about life coming to the utmost end.
It was quiet and sad, and it was good,
so good to say goodbye, to tremble with you,
to sit as labored breath forced itself
into the collapsing cavity of your chest.

I spoke of your poetry, your peerless cooking,
your love of food and company, of hosting,
of playing.  You went West to find 
spirituality and blessings and found me
my spirit animal, and sat with silence
as you might an old friend.  There is an image:

You, resting on a rock in the humid forest.
Close by, a tree carved into the shape 
of an Aboriginal boy, the spirit 
made flesh.  You smile softly,
look toward the sunlight

and breathe in the morning air.

You were a guiding light in my life,
a temple of my secret contentments,
a benchmark and a strength to swear by.
I carry you with me always,
and star the night with your spirit.