An Elegy for Anne Rice
A Cry to Heaven, "How could this be?!"
So much she gifted us, on so much we fed
Cry again, "How and when and why was it she?"
A lifetime of belles-lettres, forever to be read
Sometimes a fair sky, light clouds and bright sun, most of it was rain and shadows and fog
Vienna, Rancho, Paris and Budapest
San Francisco, Amsterdam, Miami and Prague
The globe in her velvet, emerald purse, New Orleans is where she shall for eternity rest
A friendly voice from a Garden District dollhouse, welcoming, stoic and serene on First Street
"Please, wait just a moment," she asked; a moment, a month, happy waiting we are pleased to do
The dolls kept eye, keeping her home safe, until we, gracious strangers, may dear Anne have the chance to greet
A moment or few passed, Violin was then passed, too, onto reverend Anne, by a quiet sweetness named Sue
Violin sits still, signed and prized, amongst Twain, Poe, Shakespeare and, humbly, mine
Across a continent, in an old, French town, in a misty shroud of bêtes-noires and mystery
Lies a family in love, together forever, fashioned finally, by design
Anne Rice, you are gone, but also still here, in our hearts and on our shelves, today, tomorrow, for all of man's history
Rest in peace, cherished Anne. You are missed.
