Glory be to God for dappled things—
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
  Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;       
    And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:       
                                                                           Praise him.

 - G. M. H.

A close family friend, a figure who stood on the front porch of my childhood memories, forever rolling a cigarette in his hands and laughing with my dad, has passed away this last week. I spent much of my time growing up in his house, curled on the couch watching the adults open bottles of wine, tell stories, and weave the life and faith I would take into my soul and make my own. And now watching him return to the earth, surrounded by candles and singing and tears and so much love, I feel that a bright flickering gift has been placed in my hands; they have wept and hugged me and let me be with them through all of life, the laughter and the death intermingled.

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