Singer of Everyday Miracles

For Michael Glaser

“More war poems?” you said to me, before you were gone.

“More kids and grandkids and food and love-making and love and honey and almonds and everyday miracles poems? The political can be personal too,” I said to you, before you were gone.

“Every time I met with Michael he either taught me something or told me something I needed to know,” Matt said, after you were gone.

You called me two nights before
a little later than usual.
A little later than we knew it was.
A little later than we thought it could be.
Your voice was urgent
with questions
what we needed to know
what we needed to say
what we needed to do
in these days of reluctant mercy
and malevolent faith.
You had no answers
nothing to teach or tell.
You had not called for answers
only for connection
an echo to shatter
isolate silence
before sleep
before that long sleep
before that tender embrace into the
arms of grace
you called to and merged with
as gently as you foretold
as gently as you wished,
leaving me void
of what you could teach me
of what I needed to know
you poet
you singer of
everyday miracles.