the circle broken
seasons turn—
occasions repeat
and we revisit a coming together,
though the next time can lack
some of those here the last time,
and the absence can shout,
an empty seat at the table can feel like a hole,
the presence of the absence like a ghost,
the circle unbroken only in memory,
those of us here
can still breathe in the fresh glory
that every moment can hold,
yet a weight increasingly settles over us
as the love of each now gone
reminds us of how the price of death
inevitably follows the gift of life.
by Henry H. Walker
October 26, ’14
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