Lines I wrote into a prose poem, recently, as a rememberance for a member of my own family. It seems right to repeat them here:


"The dead are never gone. Their spirits, like drops of rain, fall all around us, seeping into the stuff of life as rain seeps into the earth: a coffee mug, a favorite shirt, the walls of rooms where beloved voices once echoed."

The world in which we continue to live is more fertile because of Little John's spirit. And for that, I am grateful.

Thank you, John!