My father used to go to a writing class. He had gone for many years. I think he was loved by the people of that class. I know he was. I know because I received a poem, written by one of them, and a contribution of all of them, to the memory of my father. It has life, and loss in it. It made me cry.
Small drips whisper in leaves,
Everywhere water murmurs on slopes-
That’s a song of fall-rain,
Other sounds in the morn, we not hear.
Indian summer leaves
This still space, and the music of drops
Seems ceaseless is the main—
Only autumn today holds sway here.
We won’t come to this place,
We’ll just never come hither again.
A familiar retreat
Of our love will be empty and sad.
Now the sky wholly grays
Overhangs glum hills and a calm plane,
Like it says, ‘You won’t meet—
This time went was so happy and glad.’
Perhaps someone of us
Will return to the known heights one day
To see this world so nice
Where spring flowers and grasses have grown,
To forget the void fuss
Of a life, and to relish bright May
With its rosy sunrise.
Grieving for something—only one’s own.
Copyright Leonid Vaysman
At the end of the typed page is a handwritten note. "We will always remember Constantine. His chair remains empty." The Wednesday Writing Class.
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