There were stars
on the flag, folded into a triangle
in its place of honor by the urn of ashes
and it reminded me
of shared star-charts and meteor showers
and the sparkle of humor in his
eyes.

I looked for assurance
among carefully blank faces
and the only sparkle was from my tears
as I looked out among you
and only half of your eyes
met mine for one dry second
before sliding away to join the rest
in careful study of handkerchiefs and wringing hands
and defiantly bright flowers.
And to surreptitiously cast
wary and curious glances
at the lid of the urn and what lay
under.

Only death and sadness,
under that lid.
No stars, no sparkling bits
glinting like blinking eyes.
Just dust and ashes
of a man who threw himself willingly
upon a premature end,
dragged under by burnt-out stars
and eyes that only saw him half the time.

I begin to know how he felt.

01/07/2004

Author's Note: Topic from Rachelle Howe. Published in Confluence, a collaborative literature publication between a bunch of Mid-Ohio Valley colleges.

Posted on 01/07/2004
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