One of his oldest friends died last week. In that, thirty years flew by—-just like a wink. With him went those early days of freedom, pride, sex, dancing, playing, working, fun, identity set aflame, irony celebrated, community coalesced in the Castro. With him joined all the others, who were loved, admired, befriended and lost. Then came the ash years, a generation suffering, dying and spilled from urns, boxes, sacks, and by the handfuls, sometimes from the Golden Gate, the Headlands, Land’s End, the Marina, Golden Gate Park and all the beautiful haunts that made for celebration, joy and memory.
This morning,
When heavy fog
Swirled and ebbed
Over the golden grass of the meadow
A blue Heron
Picked it’s way
Carefully, deliberately
Unafraid
In the large empty space.
When the sun came out
The blue air
Glinted
With clear light.
Everywhere
Could be heard the faint sounds
Of a Jazz flute
And the melody
Of Amazing Grace.
In mid morning
Red Cosmos
Bent
With the delicate
Weight of yellow flinches
Taking seeds from
The Fall.
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