Jane is still with the passing of her uncle. You might note we are back to our morning poems. The book is done, for now, we feel, and we can return to how it began, to our morning allowing of time together to see what comes.
When my father died they laid him out in an open casket.
He looked a bit askew, not quite like him, more a likeness.
Now it seems we spare the dead that last humiliation
of being the only dead one among a party of the living.
Now that we live more of our lives in the space between
impulse and fire, might the dead just disappear?
Simply was but is no more?