Sunday, October 16, 2016

Music Box

[in memoriam, Dr. Robert J. Connelly, 1939-2016]

is everything meant to stop, then start again
like a music box repaired how could I wonder
when you had gone and there was no more rewinding;

at the edge of autumn edged in a pain fine as gold
because it was yours and the way cleared.
is this where the cacti bloom I thought

in my room hearing news you had died.
what's death you always asked each classroom day
through intimation or indirection's way

and praised our poetry, the small steps
we took with a gladdened look.

you lived when we bent our heads in the sunlight,

your students
who couldn't comprehend yet
the truth there was in books

raveling out into the yard.

now you are There

and know what we learned to think of
at odd moments perhaps
more than before, in full.

more than ever now I seem to know
we never lose consciousness, grief or joy
stepping from gold to a finer gold refined

at our appointed hour.

mary angela douglas 16 october 2016