In death he had shrunk, like a woolen sweater in the wash
His lighthouse had been put out of commission
No longer bringing new thoughts safely to shore, to his lips, to his smile.
His smile had been retired, like the number 42, kept pure, treasured in our hearts His laugh cast out into the blue, disappearing in the mist, the air, the sound, gone. He left his love behind Like salt in the dead sea, keeping us afloat. His love surrounded you with oxygen, reminded you to breathe. His love clung to your skin, like prickly branches in the eavesgently tugging at your fibers, bringing the best of you to the surfacefor all to see. He was an Agora, where people loved to gather And they gathered, O, they gathered to hear his final words; recorded by many, shared by most, viewed by all Leaving with peace, too soon, yet with no things unsaid The Moose turned, lumbering back through the trees; disappearing into the forest, into the world, into the everything.