Everyone alive will still have to die. Not enough people will love me. Young men will still prepare for war. Some cranes will still migrate over the Himalayan Mountains. The blind since birth won’t understand colors. You will still try to interpret your dreams. We will fail to imagine forms of life on other planets. This one will still be in danger. Our grandchildren’s faces will be as lovely as we thought. The jostling of strangers will be a pleasure. Sunrise and sunset will be silent. Making love can be a dance. Death will still make our lives precious. Amen.
As the Madison Poet Laureate I judge the annual Bus Line Poetry contest every year. We have not been able to be on the buses during the pandemic, and I wanted to highlight this poem by my poet father-in-law, Dennis Trudell, a long time resident of Madison and a 2021 selection. I find this piece to be poignant and timely, and one deserving of a greater audience.