HER even lines her steady temper show ;
Neat as her dress, and polish'd as her brow ;
Strong as her judgment, easy as her air ;
Correct though free, and regular though fair :
And the same graces o'er her pen preside
That form her manners and her footsteps guide.

The woman is perfected
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Wrapped in a sensitive shadow of frozen alphabets
They engrave an intimate definition of private insanity
Quiet tremors freeze an unknown violence
Leaving to eyes to bury the dregs of scarlet shame

Like to the sun-tanned rocks was his skin;
Gold with a tiny shade of gray.
Like to the curling moss clinging to the trunks of oaks
Was his wise beard.
Here we see a spirit of the river.
This Free Spirit, as old and wise as the boulders
That shape curves in the waters,
And yet as young and fresh as the newborn dragonflies
That fly through the air and between trees.
Here we see a spirit,
One whose lips were shaped in a constant smile,
One whose lungs evoked constant laughter,
One who never ceased to love those around him,
Nor cease to love himself.
Here is a Free Spirit,
Now in the next world,
Playing paddle ball on the beach.
Here is a Free Spirit,
At peace and smiling.

*This poem is dedicated to my dear friend Daniel Free Spirit, who passed away last week. Though the river will never be the same without his playful self there, his spirit is in the water, the rocks, the sand, and the trees. I will always greet his spirit with a kiss to the wind. Rest in peace my friend.