What we would have said, had
we known,
was don’t make that cold,
dark drive all alone.
Wait here with us ’til
you’re well again and get
your rest,
or else let us ride beside you,
as your guests.
We’ll steer while you sleep
your way back home.
That’s what we would have
said, had we known.
What we would have done, had
we known,
was chain you to the wall—if
we had to break your bones.
We’d have slammed you in
a cell and swallowed down the
key,
or else lashed you to a sailing
mast and shipped you out to sea.
We’d have strapped the
scythe into your hands so you
could reap the seeds you’d
sown.
That’s what we would have
done, had we known.
What we would have prayed, had
we known,
was "Dear God, please don’t
take him. Turn us instead to
stone.
If all he seeks is silence, then
forever still our tongues.
If he seeks light in brilliant
blasts, serve him our slice of
sun."
We’d have prayed to trade
our blood for your own,
that’s what we would have
prayed, had we known.
But now we’re huddled
with grieving hearts,
unfinished laments—a
thousand false starts,
in air so rare we choke back
our words
and rely on our eyes to speak
the unheard.
Yet what we must say,
now that we know
is that you loved life in woods,
books, and songs,
in sunlight on water, dew beaded
on grass
as you skipped across campus,
barefoot to class,
the wind in your hair, the sun
caught in your eyes
and lyrics on your lips as you
waved us goodbye.
So what we must say, now that
we know
is thank you, Daniel Watts, for
the effing great show.
--Bill Church, Instructor of
English
On the occasion of Daniel Watts'
funeral
