Saturday, September 08, 2007


Photo by S. Auberle

Annie, my ninety-two year old friend,
calls today to tell me she is sad:
Pavarotti died, she says,
I heard him sing, once, at the Lyric
and nearly collapsed...
What better epitaph
could one hope for--we--who write
and paint, dance, make music,
grapple with our small creations
in the shadow of giants like him?
The pure notes of Nessum Dorma
float out my back door
as I water a fledgling rowan tree
struggling to hold on in this dry season.
No more dazzling berries
adorn the great parent tree,
another of its limbs has died this year.
It hurts to think of taking it down
but I would leave the massive trunk
standing, rooted among stones,
so as not to forget--ever--its grace,
its abundant giving,
the towering, gentle strength.
- mimi


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