If this were an epitaph
these are the lines I would write.
I wouldn't be contradicted
if I scattered the pearls of his poetry
or stretched stanza upon stanza -
the silver strands of his talent.

I could unwrap the play he wrote
or the wit of words
packaged from the gray gold
five or so inches northwest of his earring,
present-ed when we needed to laugh.

His most precious gifts were his friends -
from Billy, Chaz and Mop to Dan, Pablo and Joe
living in the space and time between
my key strokes and my soul.

He would say: no - not friends, but Brothers.

He cured our blindness
when all we saw was others' faults.
A carpenter who rebuilt our shattered souls.
An ambassador of nothing "foreign" to him.
A Sufi and a sailor through the seas of our sadness.
He mined our gems.
His gentleness
whittled the edges of our anger.

He grafted gratitude to our cynicism.
He was a Feather
who sliced himself into our souls.

My biggest delight this night
is not that this poem is right -
which it is -
but that it is NOT an epitaph.

[For my Brother, Garth Hill. He gently nudged me toward Billy Collins, who inspired me in spite of The Animal Kingdom, Bahama Mamas, and other distractions encountered in the past 13 days in Freeport (Bahamas) and Florida. ]

07/21/2002

Author's Note: I post this in my library now in Honor of Garth because today is his birthday... still a Brother, Garth.

Posted on 07/21/2002
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier