sprite writes
broodings from the burrow

April 20, 2019

’tis a fearful thing
posted by soe 1:57 am

Stop All the Clocks, Cut off the Telephone
   ~W.H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Rudi’s best D.C. friend, Dave, was killed today while riding his bike to meet a friend for coffee.

Dave was in his mid-50s, had a wife and a daughter whom he loved tremendously, and if my Twitter feed is any indication, was known to and respected by pretty much everyone in our area. He baked delicious bread, did IT for a living, was generous with his time and his energy, and was an outspoken and tireless advocate for safer roads and cycling infrastructure.

That he died along a stretch of road that neighbors and cyclists had for years asked the city to improve in order to make it less dangerous and less prone to drivers speeding is a particularly cruel twist of fate.

My heart is breaking for Rudi, dealing with this devastating loss at home by himself. And my heart is breaking for Dave’s wife and daughter, because I can so easily imagine myself in their place, to be robbed in an instant of what they love best by the decisions of a selfish driver. And my heart is breaking for all of us, to have lost in such a stupid fucking way a kind man who should still be alive.

‘Tis a Fearful Thing
   ~Yehuda HaLevi

‘Tis a fearful thing
to love what death can touch.
A fearful thing
to love, to hope, to dream, to be —
to be,
And oh, to lose.
A thing for fools, this,
And a holy thing,
a holy thing
to love.
For your life has lived in me,
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.
To remember this brings painful joy.
‘Tis a human thing, love,
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.

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