You could never have been a Frenchman.
Your name equals death.
You were infinitely larger than American.

You live, gentle peacemaker with warrior convictions,
loving partner to Barb, builder of coalitions,
nurturer of justice, itinerant camper, peripatetic poet
Shakespearean prince of resistance.

I imagine you, even now, cleverly organizing the spirit world
for improved living and working conditions,
meditating with Gandhi, breaking bread with Bonhoeffer,
marching with King.

Your house was a home, your home a haven
where committed citizens criss-crossed, pollinating ideas
where bicycles awaited transport to Latin American workers
where blankets gathered to warm the Boston homeless.

Your anonymous adversaries sometimes
tilted loudly at the Eastham windmill
(and unintelligibly you told me, amused, more than once):
"Communist, traitor, get a life".

Your knowing legion of friends were always warmed
and nourished by your wit and wise caring.

I salute you, Mort!
You taught me volumes.
Thank you, for your very human

Leo Thibault
May 18, 2004