You look over my shoulder as I write.
You laugh like a seven-year-old. You tell me,
“An elegy is strictly for the birds,”
and add, staying just out of sight,
“You’ll never catch me in your net of words.”
I see your cheeks, rosy as a child’s,
your eyes alert with fun, showing us ways
to reinvent our lives, the past undone,
with letting go, trying a new face,
dancing (didn’t David do it before the ark?)
You could make light of darkness or deep shade,
turn dullness to delight, watching the world parade,
or gathering friends for picnics in the park.
What happy havoc you will make in heaven!
—Those harping angels at first sight
will know your name, act out hosannas,
choose crazy costumes from old trunks,
join in a “halo, who-has-the-halo” game
among celestial martyrs, saints, and monks.
Nothing Up There will ever be the same.
But stay close by, Shirley, and keep us tuned
to holy everydays; make us define
this numb Thanksgiving, 1989,
not as a bitter irony past reason
but as a season when, with clearer seeing,
we celebrate your life, the gift of Being,
sharing your shining force that will not die,
the joy you gave, the laughter, and the caring:
encircling love that never waves goodbye.