The Passing
Fly, my night bird, over the fir trees
winging from flight to nest, a rustle
of wind stirring branches,
full moon moving through clouds.
Call, O loon, my floating friend, your tone
over lake waters — laughing, inviting the stars
to glitter, for night is free,
its songs are happy. My breathing is quiet now.
Peace: my little cricket hurries to where I rest, chirping
for me. It was saying to me: wait, my darling.
I accompany you to the waiting ground where I sing with your lyre strings
and make children smile. You come, too.
Rain fell from Heaven the day of my going, as tears
on summer meadows, streams rushing, swallows
darting above my grave.
I am in melody, hearts, love
of my friends.
Songs, bells, strings play amen to Earth —
flowers, birds, my dog, my lane with the rose
I love so dear.
Fly O night hawk, I lift with you
into mountain skies.
By Margaret Collinson
( In memory of Jean Anderberg, who died July 18, 2008).
She was buried July 21, Vienna, Maine
