So many sit on benches
surrounding the circular mosaic,
companion spirits to the one
whose spirit certainly circles here—

Imagine all the people—

the ones who come to sit in the center
for a photo, the ones who stand on
the almost forty-year-old tiles,
his age when he was felled—

some have gone and some remain—

across the street by an assassin
whose name is rarely remembered.
But here in Strawberry Fields the one
who wrote the song and sang it

has never left. And the man now
standing with guitar, singing
to the faithful, There are
places I’ll remember all my life,

plucks the strings of my heart
amid this group of strangers who sit
with common purpose—give peace
a chance—on a sweetly sunny

May day—I know I’ll often stop
and think about them—the dead,
the living, the friends, the lovers,
with us here, now:

In my life, I’ve loved them all.