for Meir Ribalow
Not when the lights come on, when I remember
You, absent friend—the August death (foul, stark,
And wrenching), not the birthday in September.
And though the loss is only fit for scorning,
Because the life was never less than great,
I fall into the soothing trap of mourning
The very thing that I should celebrate.
So let my heart not grieve for you, but kvell,
Because you chose to share your time with me.
We all die. Few live. Fewer still live well,
Like you did. Let that be your legacy:
No blind despair without an eye for worth
And no world-ending loss without new birth.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells