"Questions...." ...And what is you, and what is I? ...And is it really death to die? ...And after all lifes growing pains, Just what departs, and what remains? To these, who can full answer give? Or tell us what it means to live? That which I think of now as you, Is made of all the deeds you do. Your Home, Your Garden, and the things, To which, always, your spirit clings. Your Loves, Your Hates, Your Hopes and fears. And all the fruitage of the years. That which I hope lives here as I, Is not the stuff, we know must die, But something done, or something said. In Spring, a flowering Tulip Bed. And whereso'er, I've trod the earth, Some little evidence of birth. Life is to feel, and sense, and share. As has been said, "To be aware"! And death is wood , and stone, and steel, And flesh, at last, that cannot heal. But what was truly, You or I, Outlives the flesh that has to die. Good bye Arlaine! You will be greatly missed. Thanks for all your help, and advice. Paula
