July 21,1945—April 21, 2012
His life but not his soul has flown away
It shimmers like a rainbow in a dream
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
The treasure of his life words can’t convey
He laughed and loved; we held him in esteem
His life but not his soul has flown away.
His spirit rides the wind, a stowaway
That soars the cloudless sky where eagles scream
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
He fished each rivulet a special way
And caught the wary trout by skillful scheme
His life but not his soul has flown away.
His kayak waits impatiently today
The river nymphs anticipate the team
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
His spirit lingers in the ocean spray
It murmurs softly by a summer stream
His life but not his soul has flown away.
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.
ah
Saturday, April 21, 2012
A villanelle written the day Thomas died
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