There is a certain magic hour, at a certain time of year,
that's made especially for sharing. In the quiet
of an early winter morning, we find ourselves pouring out
a pot of coffee with the other, and the talk turns warm
and honest and deep. Perhaps because the sun is not up,
or because no one else is around, we stand on a porch
or balcony or bank, overlooking a lake or valley
or ice-choked stream, and we agree that God is good.
That's the kind of morning I will choose to share with you
the last thing that I have left to do for you -
the sprinkling of your ashes.