(September 10, 1935 –
January 17, 2019)
When
a poet dies
words
drift,
milkweed
floss
on
an updraft,
white
bleeding to sky,
watermarks
waning
to
nothing, beyond.
The
hole grows.
Image
to hand to page,
liquid
through fingers,
raindrops
off a leaf,
ache
to ember, coal to ash.
Sifting
through cinders,
you
feel for warmth,
but
the unsaid,
ghosts
ephemeral.
All
that remains
is air.
Liza Carens Salerno
01/19/19
That's a touching tribute.
ReplyDeleteYour words bless her.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful poem, Liza. A lovely tribute to her. Such sad news to hear she had passed. She was so talented.
ReplyDeleteNo, dust isn't all that remains. Her words remain... her poetry. She's immortal as long as anyone reads her poetry.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful tribute, dear lady.
Beautiful.
ReplyDeletePerfect! I always love your poems as I always loved hers.
ReplyDeleteShe was one of my favorites and I can't get her words out of my head. It's like a mantra:
ReplyDelete"What is it you plan to do with your one wild precious life?"
The hole she left is indeed vast.
You write a fitting tribute, one I think she would like.
Wow. I thought you were sharing a Mary Oliver poem.
ReplyDeleteHi Liza,
ReplyDeleteI'm sure she is smiling in heaven from your lovely tribute.
superb homage. You showed your "Oliver" touch.
ReplyDeletelovely poem.
ReplyDeleteHave a great day
A lovely tribute Poem.
ReplyDeleteHave a great day
Beautiful poem, Liza.
ReplyDelete