The poem that follows was written by my mother. My dad died in his sleep – just before dawn we believe – in his bedroom connected to hers. She wrote it, as she described in her journal, “On my way to Boston October 30, 1984.” She was coming to visit Springer, Chris and me in the house we built near Burlington, Vermont. ~Sperry Hunt, April, 2021
1982 The Death of My Love
By Eugenia Howard Hunt
One morning as the
Sun reproved the night
With light
I walked on bare feet
To the front of your bed
You lay like an El Greco
Thin elegant face to the East
The right hand cupped out
Across the white sheets
Winding around your long limbs
Such curve of beauty
I could see slits of blue
Through your eyes
Your cheeks still flushed
I called gently your name
You light sleeper always
But now that body
That always responded to my love
Was vacant of its soul
Left me a few minutes earlier
I still called out your name
Then I knew and stayed
With you a while
The last time you were mine
Alone
Later that morning I walked by a copse of trees
There was no wind
But the copse revolved
It rustled and I knew
Your soul had sought
Its God
And now I am too alone