Their Deeds Follow

When great souls die,

the air around us becomes

light, rare, sterile.

We breathe, briefly,

see with

a hurtful clarity.

Our memory, suddenly sharpened,

examines,

gnaws on kind words unsaid,
promises, walks never taken…

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always irregularly.
Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored,
never to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed.

We can be. Be and be better.

For they existed.

Maya Angelou