Delight Springs

Thursday, April 7, 2022

Postscript

Back home, I've added a postscript to my parting words for Grammy Dot. As I ad-libbed at the service, paraphrasing WJ again, whatever universe a professor believes in is sure to include too many words. I added some to my formal remarks but also crossed out more. It's important to get the right ones.

Postscript. For the record, and to whom it may concern: when my time comes, no time soon I hope, I'd like a Humanist service. Not that I'll be in any position to insist, but matter really is sacred and eternal enough for me. Just as it was for old Walt Whitman, whose Leaves of Grass was much in the spirit of stepsister Tracy's poem that cousin Frank read at the service. Walt: 
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.


 

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