It was gentle weather after the rain, and the morning’s misty air, the wet earth, that dawning new day with its bright yellows mixing with the light blues, it all was the most beautiful moment. I stayed until the sunrise, and watched as the earth warmed beneath its loving eye. The grass was green, the empty field rolling on with its million stalks all straining, all reaching for the sun. We buried you by a tree, a shelter from the night’s drizzle, and left a patch of earth where the grass has yet to grow.

Upon its bough a tweeting bluebird sings, hopping along its length to the branching twigs where the creature’s little weight shakes the leaves, and a cascade of water falls like rain upon the ground. Alike my tears pour, for my great sighing’s over, but a little thing may bring remembrance, may shake my leaves, and cry I will again. Such a sweet song; those chirps fill up the heavens.

The city’s not far off, and with my mind I can see the streets with puddles filled, the early traffic splashing through them in that world’s unpausable movement. And yet a moment, the place is cleaned, is bathed by the night’s tears.

It was you who died, not me? I cannot get it strait.

The afterdrops of the rain sound in echoes stretching the whole countryside, your gentle voice, now lost forever, only in my memories replay. Everything is green and alive, and summer’s strength is yet full, is still building. The budding flowers grow somewhere, and when in bloom I’ll gather them. I’ll bring them to you soon.

The reeds, I see, are bowing in the river there. The wind wishes to play a song, a choral to celebrate the new day. That creek’s little bubbling’s the drums to keep time. The bird’s solo is answered now by this parish choir, God’s little earthly angels celebrating in that harmonious cacophony of life. The world is music, and now a rest has come. Your instrument is laid upon your lap, your part in this orchestra done.

I’ll go on after a moment, retread the way to town, but our chords were dearly intertwined. How can I play my part without your notes enriching mine? The road’s muck is yet to stick upon my boots, I’m yet to pass the farmer with his dog. I know the way, that I’ll walk beside a field of corn: Their young green stalks will grow so tall, and children will invade their maze when harvest season comes.

Come autumn I will visit you. This tree will seem as dead, the leaves all fallen upon the ground. The roots are deep, and will outlast winter. I know the seasons move, that I will move, but now I hold the moment dear, when over your grave the sky ceased to fall, and brilliant it was, that glorious day emerged.



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