Tao Writer (April 17, 1948 -)
Upon hearing of your death
I searched the home where we shared
so many of our moments together
for some sign that you might still be here.
I stretched out on the bed which held us in dreams
hoping to find some solid part of you to hold on to —
But you were not there.
I sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace
where I would read to you, praying some
spark might break free and touch me.
Some sign that you are somewhere,
if not here, but there was no spark.
You were not there.
Then, from a rock you called to me.
I placed it in my hand and stroked
it’s many textured layers —
the way you often did…
And there you were, at one with all there is,
floating on a cloud in the middle of everywhere,
having the adventure of your life.
You are stardust once again my love.