Hen Fredrickson’s paint palette inspired this ditty

That’s the bed where he used to lay

when the sun set on his pillow

That’s the song that won’t go away

where music wept like a willow

That’s the dream that we used to share

as the moon danced through the window

That’s the night that never ended

the waning that made a widow.

That’s the blanket we used to warm

against the winter’s icy chill

That’s the torn quilt of fam’ly guilt

that left our beliefs unfulfilled

That’s the place where we used to be

where our dreams became fragile histories

That’s the place where I mourn him still

forfeited by death’s tragic mysteries