Aria

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they say the spirit lingers
for three days,
hovering mere inches
from the now vacant flesh
it so transparently
inhabited,
waiting to drift
silently
into the next room,
down the hall,
through the door,
into the night.

the truest of ghosts:
haunting not
but brooding
over what remains,
billowing into cloud
and singing
over those that hover beneath,
burning rabidly
like the red flame 
of autumn,
filling the air
with the low gray
smoke of winter.

and so he heard
your song
stirring!
for he,
liberated,
transfigured,
glorified,
abandoned hearing and sight
and listened directly
to the rumble
in your heart,
the music
in your throat,
and the long, deep cry
in your soul.

and with the spirit
now departed,
his vantage
now divine,
what passes for silence
on earth
must ring
jubilant and holy
in his hearing:
the living
of a son’s good life,
the clear, deep
aria
of greatness.

(for DCB)

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