George

You looked like a clay/mockup you,

a rough portrait study bust devoid

of hair and beard, lying in that coffin,

swaddled in unfamiliar satin and suit.

•

Without hair, your nose stood out,

pitted, more bulbous than I recalled,

scarred where the dog bull-baited

you while you, on all fours, earned

a hard day’s wage laying carpet.

•

You were hardly you, even discounting death,

without your ginger hair and beard;

a small Sasquatch some have joked;

some with affection; others cruelly.

Your soul mirrored only the gentlest

of beast to me.  At  M’s graduation

in a too small jacket & wrinkled tie,

slicked red hair and beard awry you

drew looks even in our red-neck town.

I remember you above all others;

you blessed our hearts by being there.

•

The preacher couldn’t help but mention

your “troubled life” as if perfection was just

a matter of choice and our duty was to judge.

He seemed to care little of your nature;

if only he had recalled your soft mumbling

voice, strangely soothing to my ears,

or your eyes’ sparkle hidden now behind

sealed lids, or your generous heart and smile.

•

We, the ones that love you, gathered

to stand and wave as you took one last

glance at this often cruel world with an

over-the-shoulder smile and slipped

into the welcoming, singing trees.

♥