When I arrived, a circle of chairs had been set up in the back corner of the library, with most occupied by people over sixty. Some read their own poems, some read those written by others. We got a Frost, a Kay Ryan, a Neruda, and "Richard Cory," by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Among my selection were two poems by Russell Edson.
I've just learned that Russell Edson died that same night, April 29th, after a long illness. I've only read a handful of his poems, but it's a beloved handful. Here's one that, when I shared it last week to a room full of strangers, elicited from them a subtle, wordless sound of recognition:
An Old Man’s Son
There was an old man who had a kite for a son, which he would let up into the air attached to a string, when he had need to be alone.
…And would watch this high bloom of himself, as something distant that will be close again…