Death of a Poet, an Appreciation

Death of a Poet—

                        for Wisława Szymborska

There’s a hole where you used to be.

No, that’s not quite right,

there’s a lot remaining—

in your poems’ wit and compassion,

and perhaps in your apartment—

shelves of books, well-worn pots,

dishes both cracked and shiny,

bedclothes, plants, a cat dish,

but all these objects will disperse

and roam to other places,

find other hearts or at least homes.

The memories of you remain with

your friends, your admirers

who knew you daily or never saw you once.

I don’t know your life, just the reflections

of it in your poems,

the bumblebee bumping the windowpane,

the soul that is there, as you said, sometimes

then vanishes when it’s time to do taxes

the percent of people who deserve compassion, 99,

who are mortal, 100.

There’s a hole where you used to be

you who had the nerve and generosity

to give us such fire and ice.

I hope to catch your spirit by the sleeve

before you leave entirely,

whisper Thank you.
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