The following poem was submitted by Jane O'Callaghan Edwards, in loving memory of the late Ethan Fischer.
We met you going up from the
River on that sweet night
In early March when the moon
hung like a pendant on the breast
Of the sky, when the nights out-
Shone the days;
You told me where the poets meet,
At the Bookstore,
Then you were gone.
Another spring; I traced you to
Your classroom, with honeyed
Oaken floors and creaking desks'
You were teaching Whitman;
I asked about a writer, a book,
Something about poetry
I wanted to etch and carve a poem
For my mother,
Still hovering from that night we
Met you, walking up to town
I heard at a reading
"Poetry on the Walls"
At the 100 year old firehouse in
A friend read for you, a tear and a
Tangling the last lines
Something in your brain, not
Like Lines filigreed, poems spun
In happier times;
I said a prayer; never got to your
With a poem of mine
You admired..."The air as fresh as
A poem for my grandmother after
Now I have carved a poem for you,
Gathered from that sweet night,
When you told me
Where the Poets meet in
Now let our voices tremble
For the poet dying, not yet old.
Sound the drum and weep;
We walked down to see you surely,
Dear Ethan, did you see us
In your starry sleep?