On loss and love, again and again
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You were like a flower
not yet unfurled
remarkable in all your promise
tender in all your delicacy
You were like a dream
I awoke from
too early
Keening
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When I think of your music, of the music that connects me to you, I think of the word from Old Irish, to keen, to lament loudly over the dead. There is a part of me that’s always keening for you. And that part longs to sing — to sing, as if you were still alive, as if you needed me to sing you to sleep, to sing you awake, to comfort you with my voice.
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