There Is Something I Forgot To Tell You

There is something I forgot to tell you,
and I would not have had you leave
until I said it;
but since with your accustomed practicality
you have stolen this last march,
I'll say it here and trust that you'll receive it.

Never, by the way,
was there a man who spoke so constantly as you
no more than was needed; a man
who once stood on a Pacific shore,
immaculate in tans,
and greeted his own sweating brother
in the war, with what I hear
was a fine reserve (gilded, I imagine, by
an eloquent, ironic silence,
and of course that smile--you know the one I mean--
that hints at so much more that could be said,
if only it were not
so needless).

But now you see me at a loss:
Of much you taught, I learned your silence least
yet loved it possibly the best;
and I should honor you today
with quiet, not these words.
At least I can stand mute,
as sorrow certainly desires--
and you, I think,
already know
what I forgot to say.

March 18 2010

In memory of Pearson Stewart