Jay Poem by Norman Coppola

So like the bright, bold bird, I'd say
They named you prophetically, Jay.
But somehow you'd already grabbed the cue,
Having chosen eyes just as blue
As the skies were today
When we buried you.

We had due warning, but not much,
And it seemed hasty, at least a touch,
To your six daughters and your wife,
Although you went through all your life
That way, paced to such
Unsettling flights.

To kiss the icy brow and rest
My hand on the silent chest
Failed to suffice. I punched your arm
In the coffin, and knew our old, warm
Friendship liked that best—
More true to form.

The dying was not much fun, no,
You suffered. Leaving tore a hole
Inside you, as you said it would,
And as well within those who stood
By you and let you go.
But it is good.

It lifted you from brokenness
And sickness into needed rest;
It left your worries and your despair
For the cat to maul behind your chair,
And left your heart, that part so blessed,
For us to share.