Songs on the Edge of Despair How do you sing the song of a life so well lived? Do you tread carefully, hit no road bumps, or pass no stop signs? Or do you go fast, go successfully, full force and vital, The same way a 93-year life would have been lived? And on this road, What sights may be seen? The vast desert fortifications, the army town at night, across the wild seas of the Moroccan wilderness? Surely, Play it Again, Seymour? Or the wild dusks, smooth jazz in your ears, vibrant festivals, and quiet days alone at home? With family, the ones that love you by your side all the way down? Surely you must remember the journey? Every single speck of sand is a memory, every pothole a forgotten treasure. Don’t forget the joys of the world, As they continue to pass us by. Look to your left, your right. To the valleys and the forests. Each one of those trees is a human life, trying not to get cut short by the impending tide of human intolerance, fear and hatred and violence and pain. Their creases and folds and very makeup are clear, unique, and special to them. And this big oak, the greatest and mightiest sequoia, on the edge of utmost desolation Which has weather pain and loss and all the other emotions a true life must have felt to stay true, Has finally fallen. Not as a Tree surrounded by hacksaws and mountain men and beavers would, no heavy thud heard here. But silently, gracefully, without pain or even a single sound to be heard. She fell as a great and mighty tree should. Thank you, Grandma.