For Stewart

I try watching my thoughts;

There are those that say it helps –

But memories,

Like eager, bright eyed squirrels

That leap, in happy dreams

(Where time has no relevance),

From who-knows-where

Into sharp focus, before

Gracefully acrobatting their way

Into history’s here-again undergrowth:

Familiar because you’ve seen them before, because

You were there, together, when it happened –

Before the echoes began … and they’re friendly.

But this year, as the season’s bronze and orange net

Drops across the early-darkened fields,

The fire may be a little cooler,

There will be a big space:

In the crowd, in conversations, in traditions:

A hole in the skies shaped like the

Modest, gentle, dependable rock

That will be missing –

And missed –

From this day forward.