Mysterious but ordinary.

His soul was our soul,

with humor, with paradox.

Making words from thoughts.

‘Do not try to be like them,’

he said.

‘You are not them; you are you.

Be like yourself.’

Be humble in your humanity,

or you serve no purpose

and will not be happy,

with your delicate prize.

Where is he now,

other than in my memory

and scattered in the black ink

on the page.

If you catch me on my knees,

I am not praying,

I am agonizing over the beauty

of our delicate prize