On the Eve of a Memorial Service

(for Hugh James Bustin, Jr., 1924-2016)

I came here to mourn (or so I told myself),

but this is no place to write an elegy:

the quiet waters of Cedar Pond,

its flotilla of geese, and the black ducks

floating in their matrimonial ease

refuse to countenance sorrow.

The happy notes of a song sparrow,

the endless chant of a yellowthroat

and that confident singer, the mockingbird,

all conspire to sway my thoughts

from consideration of loss,

and solemnity seems unlikely.

Even those pedestrian singers,

the house sparrow and the redwing,

will not let me dwell for long

on a life now missing;

all this sight and sound pushing me

towards some unwilled celebration,

and at last I surrender:
mourning will wait for another day.