Poems for the Funeral Celebrant. Richard A. Phipps

two truths remain about this dark creature.

      Shadows ne’er can hurt you, tho’ hard as they fight.

      And their appearance is not a natural feature,

      they can only be caused by light!

      So as her trip quietly ceased and her

      eyes closed silently in the night.

      Startled curiosity was gently eased,

      as she looked up and saw the Light.

      Her Hands

      Her hands were always moving so busy,

      their speed could certainly cause a tizzy.

      Fingers like her own, oh so nimble.

      I wonder? Did she ever lose a thimble?

      In her hands, books read with eyes intense,

      pages of romance and mystery suspense,

      Thousands of words from which to learn.

      Not a moment of prose did she ever spurn.

      Hours and hours, hands in her garden.

      Digging and planting til callouses hardened.

      Geraniums, roses, magnolias, hydrangeas,

      only few of the many she nurtured so gracious.

      Yet hands ne’er too busy to care for me,

      shaping and molding so truth I could see.

      With her hands in mine knowing life can be cruel,

      she lovingly guided me back to school.

      Hands that created beaded ornaments of splendor,

      decorated my life with love so tender.

      How can I tell you of a life wrapped with lace?

      How can I describe such hands filled with grace?

      Sitting Along the Coast in Yachats, Oregon

      Sitting along the coast in Yachats, Oregon,

      the wind coolly blowing across our face.

      The red sun now tickles the level horizon,