Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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He walked the fence at evening, not because the wire had changed, but because wind, cattle,
His hat remains on the peg, rain-dark at the brim, a pale line where the sun
He read weather in swallows, in the ache of one knee, in cattle turning backs to rain.
They asked me to say something. As if the right words exist.
The eulogy is the hardest poem: you must condense a life into minutes, make a room full of crying people laugh at least once.
After everyone goes home, the cups remain half-full, chairs turned toward conversations
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