a cold draft wafts through the house as I think of you
sitting in your isolated retreat
scraps of paper strewn
verses penned by the insistant muse that keeps you going
you lived in Greece for a while
in some white-washed home
arches for doorways
with blue table
I saw pictures in a songbook
and I learned all your songs
trying to pick the guitar just like you
singing Suzanne with my cousin having no idea what it meant
but loving the language of tea and oranges
your hair was black then
your voice versatile subtle
and you wrote of love for Marianne and Suzanne
but it was more than that
because it held me in trance
the love was spiritual
Suzanne was also a church
church of body----mind------heart-----soul
and you kept going
intertwined hearts making a star of David
your ultimate symbol
and yet you also struggled with the coldness in the house
a cold and broken halleluiah
------- worth singing but fraught with middle age
and then came the mountaintop
the time for introspection
for holiness as
hair became grey
topped by a hat
and voice dropped to the depths
the basis of everything
and you showed yourself
on stage
vulnerable
praying
flying above all the others in your depth
and always like a chilled house you
presenced my life
dis/comforting like a famous
blue
raincoat
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