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And then of course there is his memory, alive in everyone he knew. This idea is
most beautifully expressed in Galway Kinnell's poem, "Memories
of My Father," which I read at the funeral:...Then the lost one |
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^^^ |
<---|---> | <|> |
And then of course there is his memory, alive in everyone he knew. This idea is most beautifully expressed in Galway Kinnell's poem, "Memories of My Father," which I read at the funeral:
...Then the lost one
can fling itself outward, its million
moments of presence can scatter
through consciousness freely, like snow
collected overnight on a spruce bough
that in midmorning bursts
into glittering dust in the sunshine.
^^^<---|---> <|>