If life is a riverand music its current,I’ve been proneat the base of this mountainas your words splashin rivulets down its sides,catching some in my mouthfor nourishment,letting others murmur downhillto join the stream of songswe know by heart.Now you’re gone,this song-bed will dry;I’ll seek new sourcesbut there’s no hope like yours.One day we’ll meet northof your moon, south of starsand I’ll thank you.
In memory of Charlie Chesterman, who will never know how much his songs mean to this humble verse-scribbler. Fly high, Cowboy--
I used some of Ed Pilolla’s nice word list for the Real Toads. It’s also #6 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans.