from a eulogy, by a poet, of a poet:

she rewinds the years for the dead

to a time he sat around a campfire with the ancient ones, singing,

"old songs written by broken men in love with their own vanishing nature..."

and it hits me, I am now among their ranks

proudly proclaiming, I am Natan Lupan, the grey wolf

yet seeing more a shivering coyote in morning's mirror

no noble howl to greet the day, but scripting what I will say,

to a world of faces, without whose feigned graces,
I would be put out to pasture

they see the white beard, the thinning mane, and wonder why I am still among them

then they decide where to go to lunch

without me, but I do not lament this loss

broken sons, long lost lovers, buried friends, and a Medicare card trump such trivial slights

they know nothing of my pitiable past

nor do they care--they weren't there
when my Elysian dreams and grandiose schemes
were born, and died

now a darkness approaches, and I fear I face it alone

though a borrowed line reminds me,
others have been there before...

sitting around a fire in the night,
mesmerized by flames that flap gold wings for short flight, then become red embers when men take sleep

when morning's cold ashes are lifted by the wind, I hope the songs we sang will be their celestial waltz