In loving memory, France Farmer (1918-2012)
I like it
best in the morning,
when the
cool air still
has
something new to say
about the
day to come.
Yet a
little lamp has gone out
in my home
today.
I have known
it all my life,
and it has
grown dark
all of a
sudden.
But light
comes,
as usual,
dawn is
there,
as usual.
And soon
everything
is humming
and buzzing
as it
should.
There is
drilling in my street,
like
yesterday;
Planes are
taking off for
faraway
destinations
– Alexandria
maybe –
like the
day before;
Subway cars
are stopping
at their
stops and
mothers are
shopping
in their
shops;
Children,
restless,
are bored
in school.
Like
tomorrow, no doubt;
While you,
dearest,
have gone
gently
into that
good night.
Words for
the time being,
have lost
all meaning.
All salt.
All savour.
Yet listen
well:
a murmur –
a deep-rooted
feeling;
A whisper
of a friendly wind,
murmurs of
a stranger
to stranger
yet than she;
say:
‘nothing again
will ever
be
the way it
was –
because you
were:
and so are we.’
So go gently.
Go gently,
please,
go gently
and rest,
into that
good
morning light.
morning light.
