In memory of Kevin Cohen
Thirteen days, I thought about the window
And where it looked out into a wooded garden,
Flowers arranged wild like dabs of paint
Beneath a sagely oak; the gentle shade,
The yellow darkness
Had crept in to the minister’s sermon,
We were swept up by summer rain, his sepia
Fear growing as I scorned the pulpit,
The centerpiece, the weary nod of smoke,
The yellow voices
Lost against the window; pagan, almost, our
Forest of pews in a makeshift meadow,
But it was glass clearer than empty space!
Between branches lay subtle brilliance,
The yellow eyes
Bowed low, hushing off green shade and
Stone doorways carved in nearby hills.
There is no fear; when we go, the tomb
Is just another window, and passing through
The yellow light.