I walked the upper field after your funeral—
stubbled grass golden in late afternoon sun
A red fox trotted, purposeful,
across the field
towards me—wild and contented in his skin
He stopped
startled
at me, there
In the middle of his kingdom.
It wasn’t you.
It was a wild,
beautiful animal,
solidly
Fox.
But anyone, fox or person, can be both—
self and sign, symbol.
Sign of —?
Oh, that’s the deep beauty of signs—
They are —it is—if you believe it
Whatever you believe.
Let’s believe it’s a sign that you
were trotting towards the heaven
you tried so desperately to believe in—
Finally, blessedly,
totally,
out
of
your mind.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 