Elegy for a Cohen

 

In the middle of 

my middle age 

on a thick, grey

Christmas Day,

I saw a photo of Leonard’s grave-- 

stark as bone, 

bleached by desert sun.

A Star of David etched, 

to light his way home. 

I wandered out from my own, 

to find a trace, 

of the certain sort of place, 

a high priest as he,

might pray. 

 

Cantering lopsided, along …

a sweet black dog. 

We pushed through meadow, 

we pressed through fog. 

Over roots wrapped ‘round

sun-speckled boulder, 

finally stopping, 

by the river’s shoulder, 

where,

 

“He 

sank 

beneath 

your 

wisdom 

like 

a 

stone.”