The poetry page this month of Thanksgiving I dedicate to Albert Huffstickler, mentor, teacher, friend, premiere editor of Hyde Park Poet's page. A few of Huff's friends join me here. Thanks again, Huff.

I read your page tonight
the one designed for you
the one we are drawn to
where we once again
listen to your voice, your cadence
your words, just words
laid end on end, glued by honesty
and the memories of so many
painful steps, years wandering
walking, wounded, sacred and profane,
words and phrases inked
and typed by you
in another life, so wise, so watchful.
You asked and answered questions
both yours and ours
dirty laundry and birthday cakes
getting equal play, and as you filled
white space with guts and grace
we fill it with admiration.
The page designed for you
makes certain we still listen
touched by the man, the poet, the you.

silly name for such beauty
lying inexplicably
just by doorsill, just
dead, and this my only
to have seen, so he seemed
portent, as though a sign

you who also flew against
solidities without grand design
but always, almost always,
brightly, had Heaven send.

The day was next after
when you should be through
all bardos brilliant and frightening,
thus home, resettled.

Francis Bacon tried snow
to save such colors of a fallen bird.
We place our beauty in the freezer.
Bacon died of a chill soon after.
We carry on:

mother and children killed
by nervous soldiers in the West Bank;
Lady Bird ill, she
whom you loved a little;

painted bunting, passerina ciris,
soft to touch if only
some less brilliant.