I seek not
a kindred soul,
universal connection,

I seek one
single constant,
fixated absolute,

truth amid illusion.

Some dance to music
some to rising dust
I dance to magical strokes
of a worn paint brush.

Great Uncle Junis died
and was buried
on Christmas Eve.

Thirty-one people
came to see him off.
I saw him in a suit

for the first time in my life;
no wife, no children,
no wealth to leave

only the memory of his joy
when he played the French harp
and sang for passers-by.

I think of an Aztec poem,
that says though I perish
the songs I sang will still be sung.

So I make a place
for his music to live
forever in my soul.

Adios, mi tio,
last legacy of my grandfather’s
generation. Adios.