Hi Friends,
My very talented, sweet, and articulate husband wrote this poem to express what has transpired over the last 4 months and to celebrate a beautiful soul we all love and dearly miss.
Much love,
Carly & Jason Rignell
The Printer’s Daughter
by Jason Rignell
A printer had five daughters,
His fourth is wed to me;
The youngest girl was winter-born
With eyes of hazel seas.
She grew up in godliness, family, and song,
The good printer taught her such things from the start,
And he doted upon her as she upon him,
And he printed his love for her onto her heart.
But years before her maidenhood,
Dread sickness emerged and the printer grew ill;
So he took his last child and he washed her of sin,
And the hands of the parlor clock slowed and were still.
How dark was that winter, the spring held its breath,
The husk of the printer to the cold earth was sown;
From the hearth of their musings the family took warmth,
And the girl took their memories to add to her own.
No stumble to falter set time's passive march;
Unslowing sunrises the tear-streaks did fade,
But the burning sun's gaze leaned an angel's hair breadth
In a covetous watch o'er the blossoming maid:
He Bronzed her skin and brightened her hair;
In her heart was his warmth, in her smile-his beams,
And outward her breath subtle mixed with air
To float through the sky as a warm summer breeze.
Though her memory dimmed, father's lessons burned bright;
The supernal was clasped to new womanhood's breast;
Halls filled with friends, melodies led her steps,
And laughter with family a night-chorus blessed.
Hopeful suitors regaling, to but one she paid heed;
Amid mountains and starlight her favor he won;
"Marriage" was whispered, then "wedding" was spoke,
Spy a ring for the choosing, the summer has come!
The summer has come . . . the summer has come . . .
Moonlight frosts the window, sullen dark paints the room;
Such a cold melancholy, not a warm summer's breath,
Oh the shattering scene cloaked by night's lying hand-
In wait lurked the nightmare of the young woman's death!
All we still asleep, in God's eyes she woke first
From this dream of mortality's heartbreak and toil;
Did her luminous skirts fan corporeal floors
When she heard joyful welcome celestial and royal?
Did she sit on the steps in a lingering pause?
Did she whisper farewells to her sisters and brother?
Did her locks brush the doorways of grandparents, friends?
Did her train fill the room of her sweet, loving mother?
Did she stop for a moment to stroke the old cat
Sensing spirit familiar in its feline repose?
Did ethereal lips part in tender caress
To light on the brow of the man she had chose?
And he, sorely missed, the good printer and kind,
Was his smiling embrace full of love more the reason
She ascends on a staircase of moonbeams and grace
When summer was lost the first day of the season?
In a forest of queries the redwood of "why"
Stands mute in the corner and glares at the room,
Sharply branching its way to chafe each broken heart,
Taking root in the earth cleared away from her tomb.
Tarnished wedding bells groaning a funeral dirge;
Nuptial hues wrapped as wreaths scorn rejoicing and mirth;
Vainly seeking for her in the garden that morn
The sun, much bereft, scorched in anger the earth.
The tears wrung from our eyes join with tears from our flesh;
'Neath that star's torrid glare, all as pallbearers stand.
The bridesmaids are scattered, now take up the box,
And we strain with the weight of her death in our hands.
Future's promise to heal fails all comfort for now;
Spare no thought for holidays, birthdays, the morrow,
Tonight sit with mother in vigil graveside
And kneel at the altar in a temple of sorrow.
God keep ye, little sister.
In the gray dawn, when sunlight just brightens the hours,
I look for you still in your grandfather's fields,
Beside glassy pools and the blossoming flowers.
And we'll watch for you yet 'til our mortal eyes close,
'Til your smile sparks the wavelets of heavenly lakes;
And the printer's fair daughter will welcome us home
Where Christ raises sleepers and death never wakes.
