The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days–
Perhaps you will not miss them. That’s the joke.
The universe winds down. That’s how it’s made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.
The above was written, completely off the cuff, in a blog comment by John M. Ford, to whom we must now affix the adjective late to go along with the already applied great.
He was the definition of diversity in writing. He wrote the single best poem about September 11th, 110 Stories, which compelled me to take a month and make a multimedia version, and he was touched that I’d done so. He wrote the Star Trek novels that both Trekkies and militant non-trekkies love. He won awards for his RPG sourcebooks. I performed in a live musical revue he wrote, “Another Part Of The Trilogy”, which skewered every fantasy trope with wit and aplomb and almost on-key. I consistently nominated in every web poll I could find that had a “Best Commenter” award.
The best places to find out more about him are this Making Light post and his CafePress store, where you can see some of his brilliance at work/play.
And I’m sad that I never got the chance to ask him to write a Munden’s Bar story, and never find another brilliant gem from him.
One more for the road ahead, also from Mike:
THE FINAL CONNECTION
Why are there so many songs about hearses?
The way to the uttermost side,
Hearses go fast, and traffic parts for them,
But who’s in a hurry to ride?
Wagons and roads are an eloquent metaphor,
Gentling and straightening the way,
Everyone takes that last exit to Brooklyn,
Home at the end of the dayRemember the start of Magnificent Seven?
Steve and Yul drove to Boot Hill,
Just a small fable of folks being equal,
And going to sleep where you will.
Tickets and transfers and waiting for answers
At something so common yet strange,
Someday you’ll ride it, the last train to Clarksville,
All classes, all stations . . . all change.Look out the window and wave to the strangers
What do they see in the glass?
Up ahead, can you see, we’ve stopped for Emily,
There will be more as we pass.
Savor the journey, however you’re going,
It’s been your whole life to get there,
Someday I’ll travel, without reservations,
I hope I’ve two coins for my fare.