Spencer Tracy

The velvet dark of a silent room, A glass half-full at the edge of gloom, He drank as a river drinks the rain, To soften the clutch of mortal pain. His voice was low, his touch was true, Each glance a story the soul once knew; No gesture wasted, no bright deceit, He wore his greatness soft and sweet. A son was born, yet soundless too, The world he met was strange and new; In silence deeper than any bell, The boy he loved but could not quell. Louise, steadfast as rooted pine, Tended him through the breaking time; Though seas between their spirits swept, Her hand, unseen, was where he wept. He prayed in the chambers none could see, A doubting man, yet on one knee; The altar flickered in his mind, A distant peace he could not find. The vows he spoke in youth’s bright flame, He bore as penance, not as shame; For in his heart, too torn to choose, He wore the chain he would not loose. Oh, Spencer, bright and broken star, How wide the sky, how near, how far. Epilogue The stars he touched fell through his hands, The prayers he spoke were made of sand; And in the end, no voice, no call— Only the silence after all.