Qui decessit

Over the crest of our hill you come, running,
The long-grained grass flowing
In the blowing of a Northerly wind,
And in your Sunday sundress, beaming, 
Your smile brighter than the yellowest of blossom,
The dandelions and sun flower, which reach 
Not toward our dear world's star,
But to you, my little one, as you skip and dance
Through the Elysian fields of God's good countryside.

You pause and stop, the breeze toppling your hair
Over your face and back again,
To reveal the comforting gaze of a child's faith.
My sweetness, look about, 
Cast your gaze on all-greening meadows,
On the butterfly dancing on the cusps
Of late August's warming breath,
And on the mellowing trees 
That do prepare to soon change suit;
To you belongs this great kingdom.

Must I let you go, must I bring you to Him?
And your tiny voice singing resounds
A chorus of hymns far fairer and simply simpler
Than the reaches of the heavenly heralds,
Who announce the coming of a Father 
Greater than I could ever be, despite all your protests.
"But Papa," you exclaim with a look 
That flattens even the tallest of mountains 
And seems to say, "You silly old man." 

O my darling, my daughter, 
You indeed have called my bluff, 
For I am nothing else than as charged,
I am condemned to your loving looks
And laughter; do your worst.
And although age often yields wisdom,
I am but a fool of your coming Autumn,
And I am a fool for you.