There are a lot of great poems about death. The obvious fitting one is the Edna St. Vincent Millay one that ends "I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned." Which, no, I'm not, and I never will be.

But somehow this e. e. cummings one particularly works for me, for the glory that was ita. [praying that pre is one of the HTML tags we let through, because cummings]

 	Buffalo Bill's
 	defunct
 	       who used to
 	       ride a watersmooth-silver
 	                                stallion
 	and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
 	                                                 Jesus
 	he was a handsome man
 	                     and what i want to know is
 	how do you like your blueeyed boy
 	Mister Death

I so wanted ita to have a chance to be ita again.

Yes, in all - in the lack of a better word - technical, "outside" terms, in terms of what can be actively done and take place.

But, to me, in my eyes, in her spirit and heart and soul, the way she dealt with an such an unbelievably impossible situation, and dealt with it with such strangth, courage, grace and fierceness - she kravved the hell out of that aweful hand the universe had dealt her. She's a total hero.

And now I'm crying again.

I don't know what to do. I just gave Mr Peabody a dog biscuit for no reason.

We let in pre, thank goodness.

He's there with you. That's reason enough, Ginger.

Damn my Internet glitching! Sorry for the doublepost.

Thank you, Betsy, for posting both the reminder to Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem, and the e. e. cummings one.

(And, hey, I dozenposted somehow by mistake earler. You're so much better than me!)

Betsy, I'm going with Emily Dickinson:

The Bustle in a House The Morning after Death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon Earth.

The Sweeping up the Heart And putting Love away We shall not want to use again Until Eternity.

This is too much loss. It's just all too much.