Micholosh, dear friend,
we were colleagues for what at times
seemed too long and now,
feels like just a breath.

Shared points of view and yet
remained friends and even
leaned on each other
when times for leaning came.

Until our friendship was reduced
to merely an electronic to and from,
and even then, we had fun and squabbled.

I regret not attending your flower planting party.
Where was I?
And after your Spring in Paris,
I also missed meeting your lovely Lyle.

Blessings of friendship that will not return.

Conception grants us a slice of living cake,
to eat as life eats us up is the real gist.
You were amongst those who never stopped
looking for more frosting.

We shared painting with words,
landscapes for the imagination.
Walking barefoot on the scorchers of life
and dales of daisies.
Never to give up one or the other,
for emotional suburbia.

Dunked ourselves in living like nuts
from the eager tree.
I will remember you that way,
friend of La Mancha.

Thanks for giving me a copy of
In the arms of a stranger.
If I could do it over again,
I would invite you to plant flowers.

I look forward to seeing you
now and then in the ether of shadows
and to talk with you occasionally,
in spirit.

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