The bare sun, skinned, slides through the grass

 Lord, now let your servant go in peace...

Sister Margaret John Kelly died last night at age 88.  I was blessed to be with her when she died.

She had been my major professor for English during my college years; a wonderful teacher. She also was an alumna of my college, fourteen years older.  She suffered greatly through the last three years, battling against the dementia which left her without speech, and without independent movement.

She loved poetry.

Here are some November poems, sadly, not by me:

November, Late in the Day

BY JOHN M. RIDLAND

So this is aging: the bare sun, skinned,

palely bucking the dark wind,

slides through the glass, crawls on the carpet,

climbs the footboard, lies crosswise on the blanket,

a spoiled dog waiting to be fed.

 

Not now, dear warmth. The kindling’s in the shed,

too far to fetch. Those two great logs that close

together to make fire, repose

apart, an old couple reminiscing

on conflagrations they’re now missing:

how every sunny Saturday afternoon,

Hey, diddle-diddle, the dish ran away with the spoon.

 

Not yet, dear spoon. Some hotter day, dear dish.

No tidbits now. Instead, let’s make a wish,

and boil fresh water for the small teapot

to keep it piping hot.

Source: Poetry (February 2011)

 

Thank You

BY ROSS GAY

If you find yourself half naked

and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,

again, the earth's great, sonorous moan that says

you are the air of the now and gone, that says

all you love will turn to dust,

and will meet you there, do not

raise your fist. Do not raise

your small voice against it. And do not

take cover. Instead, curl your toes

into the grass, watch the cloud

ascending from your lips. Walk

through the garden's dormant splendor.

Say only, thank you.

Thank you.