All night the meadowlarks mourned,
eased you away from the forest spirits
you nurtured so long.
The breeze at four in the morning
slowed in quiet dance to accompany
you on your way.
The steadfast other you addressed
in your poems took your acquiescence
to what you ceased to call horrible,
what you viewed as a mysterious venture,
as their final lesson, instructions
for the way beyond.
The snow geese, the rabbits, the deer,
all followed the same patterns you knew,
through the wilderness you made your studio;
you left quietly, not disturbing habits
and rituals that now named you a part.
No animal understood your words,
but readers by parlor lamp study them
as if from a curator of the light inside
every last creature you’d learned to love.
