Seven days had passed when I heard you died,
A missive in the warm morning hours, dawn
Rose, and no one said how I should go on,
Or ford this moor without my only guide.

Flown to space by what callous earth destroyed,
I chase the long-flying radio waves,
Far away from grief and a potter’s grave,
I sift to find again your breathing voice.

Teacher, my every thought was yours to thresh,
So now what sure course would you recommend?
Your kind words turned to shrapnel in the end,
Pieces of you left here in my heart’s flesh.

Lover, did you mean to leave this deep wound?
I would sell my world to kiss you farewell.
Eleven years braving your personal hell,
And all I can say is, “Too soon, too soon…”