Love has certain limited powers The dead walk with us briefly, suddenly just behind on the narrow path like a part in the hairy grass. We feel them between our shoulder blades and we can speak, but if we turn, like Eurydice they're gone. The dead lie with us briefly swimming through the warm salty pool of darkness flat as flounders, floating like feathers on the shafts of silver moonlight. Their hair brushes our face and is gone. The dead speak to us through the scent of red musk roses, through the steam rising from green tea, through the spring rain scratching on the pane. If I try to recapture your voice, silence grates in my ears, the mocking rush of silence. But months later I stand at the stove stirring a pot of soup and you say, Too much salt, and you say, You have my hair, and, Pain wears out like anything else. Marge Piercy (for the rest of us....) Jessica! You have infused each one of us with your passion, vision, laughter, music, and love. A humble thank you. Justice then Peace, Dee the Bee