There are no excuses for my failure, then:
My intellect the snare which trapped me.
Too many words; too little gentle, re-assuring, silent love.
I should have felt, known, that awful anguish which transformed her -
Cloud to warm Sun -
And held her, held her
Until the warmth of Summer lived in her,
The Sun is not annoyed by cloud
Knowing rain for the burgeoning life it is
But I, in my blindness, deafness, ignorance, did not know -
So many clouds, I had not thought the world contained so many.
"Please don't go," she pleaded on that Sunday,
But I did go, selfishly, stupidly, vainly,
Leaving here bereft, alone:
Nine hours later, she lay dead.
There are no excuses for my failure, there.
Now, three days on, such warmth of Sun to take me out
Into the green fields of this Farm:
Too late the blue sky, the heat of June.
Too late, this understanding.
Too easy, perhaps, for me to die, here, now, as she died
And as I just intended.
Should I - must I - live the agony of this knowledge,
To redeem what was to what might be:
Some words capturing the sun of her life which the clouds of illness
So I am crying, weeping, beating my fists into the earth
Here where the tall Oak shades the shallow pond:
No words of mine to express the tragedy of her life and beauty.
In Memory of Fran, died May 29, 2006.