All week long I saw them.
Those portents gleaming, squawking,
hopping, cocked head, taunting,
“Sorrow! Sorrow!”; giving warning.
Well dressed spectres perching trite
on ghoulish glamour of foresight
from watchful beads. Their message might
be overlooked, taken light
-ly. I mistook their solo missions
as personally guided acts of attrition
and didn’t realize what they were bringing
was the precious gift of premonition.
Now I replay my memories and lessons impart
-ed by you, my husband’s family’s matriarch.
Luminous lady now journeying in to dark
with no map or signs. No official chart.
Are those monochromatic couriers guiding
the Valkyries with whom you’re riding?
Battles corporeal you fought inspiring
-ly with bravery unretiring.
If the piebald post can pass their notes from Future into
Past
Can missives slip between the cracks of the Living and
the Passed?
And if only one can get through to you
out of the endless many
let it be this truth you’ve heard a million times:
“Ciao, Tesoro. Ti voglio bene”.
In memoriam of Luciana Pavia. 4th October 1940 - 20th January 2015
