It was a cold day when you left us.
The August sun beat down upon us but could not warm our hearts.
I think the earth should stop, if for a fleeting moment, to mark such a life.
You were a traveler who included us on your journey.
Words fly--memories are molded into myth as small town storytellers speak of you.
Words pour--from me when met with joy.
Today, the halted sounds of my speech ring with regret and sorrow.
Yes. It is here, but will not be found today.
On another day, we will find it in the strangest places--
a worn flannel shirt, a yellowed note scrawled upon, the eyes of a stranger we pass,
the warmth of an old friend we meet by chance.
Not here and now. It hides, but we believe.
You told us not to waste this time, that dreaming is not dead to those who will.
Did you struggle? I think so.
You did not yield, plunging toward and in, for always more...seeking, finding, a quality unspoken in this life.
It showed. It shined. It was here when you were and we saw it in you.
So, we do not want to let you go.
What is over is what we search for while the workers cover the emptiness with fresh, red dirt
on this day. still. moving.
Loving and Learning,