the last tear

If I could but pour again into this world

I’d come again as agile pearls

to cushion your morning walks.

If I could but send you softened morning sun

celestial domes of endless mirrors

would watch your moments unfurl.

If I could have reflected the perfection

of your gaze I’d be the river too

that feeds the sun and the dew.

If I could but feed you, I’d feed you the sun

the light that never rests within you

I’d give you the waters’ wheel.

If I could but wield the waters with the sun

Icarus would have no need to know

where the sun-fed waters go.

If I could but know where the sun’s waters go

I’d see the ocean for the stream

I’d feel the wind in the keel.

If I could but bring you back to me dear one

I’d cast you again in bronze or

steel you off for endless talks.

If I could but send away instead the fear

I’d tread by moonlight evermore

where tender flesh truly seems...

But for the clouded skies there’d be no waters

to pour again and again to

restore my last heaven-sent tear.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

I read this Dylan Thomas poem recently at my father's memorial in California. It was at first a difficult choice to make. I had feared that listeners would misunderstand my use of it. Perhaps they would think it implied bitterness or anger. And so I found myself explaining the poem's significance. I wish I could remember verbatum what I said (apparently when one is deeply within the phenomenological it is difficult to replay the events) but the jist was that at the moments near to his final breath I found myself in two places of relations to his passing. I split into two selves so to speak. The one self wanted him to stay and fight the leaving. The other knew he could not help but let go and wanted him to do so; and thereby perhaps relieve any possible suffering.

This duality of being I thought was crucial to understanding the poem, but also for understanding how it felt to accompany my father as he left us. I have yet to put myself back together.