I want to be the lady who
                had a dainty stone teahouse
                                     built on the tiny island in
  the middle of Emerald Bay
                      in South Lake Tahoe,
accessible only by
          the little yellow boat with
                            the scalloped awning over it,
   which she kept by the dock
                              below Vikingsholm,
her glorious stone-built castle
                                       in the nearby pine trees.
Who is she?  
          Who was she?  
                   Why couldn’t I have been her?
                                                           ljm

You are not here for the truth
And I am not going to lie,
let us depart with a solemn goodbye.

The truth lies in the dirt
Feathers sifting brown flour
Sunlight prisms dancing
And I let you

New green, her ritual comforts
While I lie contorted beneath you
The scent of wet soil
And I let you

The ****** bud reclaims her power
Rhythmic earth turn, turn
Spring, thy mirror of veracity
And I let you

Blinded by a heart grown
Veiled in misty mornings
The great lie, just out of sight
And I let you

Out of a hard rain now
No death by my hand
Nature continues her march
And I let you
Go

I don't have a face for the man who just died.
But it is true indeed that my heart did cry.
I have been hearing his voice all through the last year.
He was firm and strict and kind in his own way.
The year has been too cruel that now I fear.
The news hit me hard to know he is no longer here.
I feel the numb as I hear more terrible news filling in.
Someone I knew or someone my friends knew.
They got affected and for few left and few are leaving.
And it will be hard to see the world around with them missing.