It feels like a moment ago—not years—
when I delivered books of her poetry

to her shortly before her death, put a copy
in her hands, watched the skin stretched

thin over her knuckles as she stroked
the glossy cover of the slender volume,

some of her best work sewn into those
pages like an intricate quilt of many colors.

Today I brought copies of an anthology
to another poet slowly dying, hoping to

hold the collection of many voices,
including hers, before she finishes her

lifetime of words. I have lost track of how
many pieces I’ve published by those

knowingly dying or recently dead, a small
gift, sometimes delivered too late, that

makes eyes shine with unshed tears.
Leaving behind a creation we’ve sculpted

with our two hands and devoted intention
is perhaps the most meaningful gift we can

offer our beloveds. The art forged by those
too soon gone gleams like a shimmering road

map in the dark, illuminated simply, held
deeply by the brilliance of a passionate heart.