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The Driftless hills salute beneath the sky,
a hush descends upon the weathered crest.
A southern wind moves soft as though a sigh,
unfurling knots that tighten in my chest.
Wracks exhumed like roots on wooded floor,
and how I wish to have him here once more.

Where waters carve the hollows time has wrought,
where bluffs catch fire when evening strikes the land.
A soldier shaped by war he never sought,
a barber steady with a practiced hand.
The laughter echoes through the rock and pine,
and spoke the name before he crossed the line.

Atropos has now slit the final thread.
May peace at last ease burdens age had laid.
He lies beside the one to whom he wed,
Aion divides him from his true love’s grave.
The river bears him onward through the vale.
In coulee rest returned unto the dale. 

May ridges hold him steadfast in their keep,
and valleys shelter well his endless sleep.