(
hdlao wrote: "
Barak's ashes are being scattered the weekend of June 28. drop a few flower petals into the nearest body of water on mid-day Sunday. Red roses were his fav..." So on this perfect summer day I went down to the rose garden by the Willamette River and scattered some. This being for Barak, of course things had to be ornery; the wind was blowing off the river, so half of them blew back onto the bank, but enough drifted down to float away. And so...)
***************
I scattered petals on the water and thought of you:
perfectly imperfect, roaring at your squires
laughing at your foolish black goat dancing on hot oven rocks.
A man remade, shy in your new Mongolian name and clothes,
then glowering when a certain song was sung
(“And you will know him, to be sure”--we did).
The gasp when your knighting was announced—then the cheer;
the brief pause as they realized, yes, he has changed and grown; yes,
this is right.
A forceful king, then sometimes cheerful as a child,
teaching your populace to do the “wave” at court,
brandishing the oosik as the crowd roared with delight.
Unmistakable, irrepressible, a furious force upon the field,
brash and full of humor, immense in spirit, strong,
annoying as all hell, sometimes, but thoughtful underneath it all.
A force for honor, and for honesty, painful though it be:
you would speak truth to power, name wrongs for what they are;
you would take up the gage if honor did demand.
Now there is a wide gap in the shield wall, a roaring silence left;
Now all the spoken and unspoken goes unsaid.
Perfectly imperfect, loud and echoing in my thoughts
and passing now, dissolving now, like petals on the stream.