To My Dear Friend, George

It's easier to admit to a higher power, when you're higher than the clouds. Something does it,

easily throwing a bulls eye of light against their white caps below. My eyes don't dart to it, they settle softly

into its faded blue center. Who questions it, what you can't know? I knew the snow of his hair

that's now ash. I knew it, but I can't know the why, or the how of its sudden change. Or the when I'll follow.