They say death is final.
Yes, in a way, they’re right.
Consider love’s strength, though,
how hard I’ve seen you fight.

Creeping stiffness threatened
your will to hold a brush.
You painted anyway
from your wheelchair, in no rush.

I bought a bag for you
to carry all your stuff.
Hair clippings fell inside
and if that weren’t enough,

you left something else, too.
A token of your love.
Precious gift of color
shed by a heavenly dove.

Death couldn’t hold you back.
I know your spirit’s free!
Or why else would you send
that li’l blue feather to me?


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