by John Cutaia

And what can I say to you my friend
You talk openly about it
Explaining the excruciating circumstances
Inventing your anger
When the pain would make you cry
The other night I reached
Into the cabinet
And when my arm brushed a pitcher
It's handle fell off
For a moment, I thought
It was one of yours
And feared an omen warning me you were hurt
I was relieved when I found out
It wasn't one of your pots
We've talked about it before
But most of the time we don't
You are watching a mind you love
Become a shell
And the wind
Whistling through it
Weeps a sad note
In an old song of the Dead
We share your pain
And offer our friendship
Some people wear their soul
On the bottom of their shoes
But you, my friend
Do not wear yours at all
It hovers above you
It radiates from you
Life, love, memory
Breathe deeply
Each morning is a masterpiece
Each moment infinite
The love he gave you
And your love for him is eternal
Each person who loves you
Loves only what he instilled
And each person you love
Is a testament of his immortality