Wed., Mar. 4

When Alexander Campbell died today
in 1866
his family gathered all around
though there was nothing they could fix.

No signs and wonders marked the day
no return of native power.
The last few years of slow decline
led to this final hour.

They sang for him the hymns he loved
(they'd been doing that for long)
when in one moment realized
the man on the bed was gone.

Yet every year, for ever since
fresh flowers in God's Acre laid
mark today, with songs and prayers,
and thankful speeches made.

* * *

Tues., Mar. 3

"Wowwwww...." he said,
my son brought out from house and warmth
to stand with his dad in the frosty driveway.

He looked with me at Venus to the west,
a reaching hand of starlight groping, a clump of rays reaching
through a veil of light, thin cloud dangling down.

Then straight up, directly overhead
the Moon, at half, waxing, not round
but at a dramatic remove, perfectly traced --

A ring around the moon,
soild, yet ghostly, clear, but feeling
as if we could just exhale and make it go.

"I've never seen that before,"
he said, and the ultimate "That's cool, Dad."
Then "Can we go in now?" Yes, we can.