For Brian Poem by john coldwell

A few motes of dust in a bottle,
Made dainty with a blue ribbon bow,
The mortal remains of a someone,
I had occasion to know,

I, and ninety nine others,
Have what is left of a friend.
We are charged with the weighty burden
Of ministering a suitable end.

I didn't think when I took them.
That they would so trouble my heart.
Of the deeper grief of another,
I become suddenly a part.

I am forced to turn to a memory,
A sentiment recalled from the past,
I seek for an appropriate moment,
That will join the first to the last.

Warm handshake and big hearted smile,
Is all that my mind's eye can see.
I'm glad of this happy remembrance,
and in peace these ashes will be.

But bitter words and sour rancour,
Whatever the reason why,
Will not scatter like dust in the sunshine,
But seethe, toss and won't die.

Now my soul has received such instruction,
To all I meet I will be,
Big hearted and kind as my friend was,
Until the bottle's contents are me.