After The Poet's Death

His poems refuse to mourn his passing, they detach themselves from books, magazines, wall hangings and float freely in the fair summer air. Their refusal to mourn is steadfast. 'He's just changed his address, ' one of his first poems says to the new lyrics. 'He's done this before, searching for a better place to live.' 'And we always go with him, ' pipes a small poem, barely audible, maybe not completed, hardly a poem at all. 'We are all of us pieces of his soul, ' booms the lordly Epic Poem of 24 cantos. 'We must catch up with him, restore his soul to wholeness, then together, all of our words linked, all of our sentences looped around each other, we will be the ONE POEM he always claimed to be writing.' Murmurs of approval for Epic's speech crescendoed over the meadow, into a harmony of voices that was almost musical. 'Excuse me, oh, pardon me.' From way in back where the sequence poems had clustered, Sonnet XIV was coming forward. He squeezed through a group of illustrated narrative poems, and eased himself past the pastoral poems, reclining on the yellow-green lawn. Lacking the familiar support of sonnets XIII and XV, XIV was unsure of himself. Epic graciously steadied him, and introduced him to the assembly, 'Dear friends, ' he began softly, 'we sonnets were with him for hours yesterday. He was reading us to his three children. It was the happiest afternoon! He read sonnets by the two Rossetti's, brother and sister, his favorites. Then, just as the sun dipped and lights came on, something happened. He suddenly collapsed.' XIV breathed deeply. 'We watched as two of his childen covered his face with a blanket.' For a long moment, it was just the green air of summer. Then an immense cry sliced the greenness, and it bled grief over all the poems. The Elegies, whose gray eyes had held little hope, were comforted by a volume of haiku. Pairs of Love Poems embraced fiercely to crush grief before it could propagate. Drinking Songs from the Chinese laughed harshly and poured more wine. Wisdom Poems fell into stunned silence. The other sonnets joined XIV and they all bowed their heads. A straggle of Free Versers assembled, reciting OUT OF THE CRADLE, ENDLESSLY ROCKING. They sheltered the small poem, confused, bereft. It was dusk but no shadows obscured the outlines of trees, bushes and flower patches. The sun had withdrawn, but left behind was a spiritual glow, suffusing all with yellow-gold, an unasked for grace welcomed nonetheless for beauty's sake. A procession had quietly formed on the furthest margin of the meadow. Prose Poems, from his last published work, carried and pushed a huge covered arch. They were silent, except for a choral hum, which other poems joined as it gathered them into the procession, making it more spacious and resonant. A smiling Epic and the sonnets understood suddenly what was happening, and joined the Prose Poems, who welcomed them. Together, they braced the arch and removed the cover. Cheering resounded across the meadow. Then, in perfect silence, the poems crossed the threshold, and entered the open arch. Sonnet XIV paused. 'You see, he is not dead. He lives in all of us. We are his life eternal.' Then he too disappeared within, as did every poem, quietly entering - THE COLLECTED POEMS OF - - -