The news of your death came
as the early autumn winds
    embraced me,
    a painted memory
    to take away the chill.
 
The message traveled miles
to reach me, the way your letters
    skidded across the earth
    from Canada, from Boston
    from secret places.

The magic wand of ubiquity,
(a word you disliked) rested in your hand
    ancient archimage, you painted
    elegant petroglyphs
    crafted in tradition.

They say you’re in Eskasoni,
buried deep in a warm blanket,
    perhaps remembering the
    violent judgement of genius,
    the tenuous nature of justice.

I cover myself with
the last canvas you gave me,
    curves of unbroken color
    swirl tight around me,
    transcendent comfort.