November 12, 2006, Evening

Although my mother has not passed, I have been preoccupied with the idea of death lately, and it seems appropriate to share the painting above and the following poem "Funeral Song." Both of these are dedicated to Johnny Cash upon his passing, and although I may have shared both of these works before, it is right to share them now.

Funeral Song
--for John R. Cash, 2003

Since you died, the last of the autumn roses withered,
and no more blossom in the yard.
The lawn is spare of summer birds.
All but few have flown where once they stood, gathering.
And these last few scarce can croak the saddest tune for you.
You died so near to winter.
Yet nearer now to June.
The country mourns--you’ve drawn
your unluckiest card--and I mourn.
In the night, I sit on the porch, the screen door open,
your ghostly voice echoes down the street
and back now to my childhood where you sang to me then,
the haunting beat, coming to me over the fields and the few trees
and the highway to the small house there.
I loved something in you then, something I couldn’t speak.
I know it now, and still I seek for words but do not find them.
I would drink a beer or wine or smoke a smoke to you.
Instead, I look up through the trees
and mark a star, a pair, for you. No, have them all.
While in the cool, the leaves have begun to turn,
and I am still here waiting for them to fall.