Phil Fink is gone,
our brother Phil,
no bigger than a slice of pizza
but he leaves a gap
like half the side of chapel,
a man forever
supplying quick solutions,
improving a dozen operations.
He boasted a double win
with the gamma knife,
committing his tumor-attacked brain
to exciting ministries
of training young friars.
For internship in psychology
at Buffalo,
he described a frozen Niagara
with a rime of icy mist
about his face and collar.
Alert to frozen beauty
his brain cells broiled
over ways to line
a day’s consignment of graces
on the fastest firing line.
He was his own
most delicate patient,
contorted by fiercest slashing
of nicotine addiction,
with cancer the abysmal odds.
His addiction was as pervasive
as his breathing,
compelled to balance
what made him comfortable
in his own body,
heroically adjusting grace
to a pattern
of more frequent and greater success.
Though ultra capable,
Phil gave little thought
to the clutter of consultation,
solutions tumbling
at his finger tips,
and when he was provincial
that left his councilmen
go reaching for a grip.
Our brother seemed to like
the position best
of being novice master.
Like intricacies of hockey
he challenged talent
to surest results.
This post of novice leader
appealed so much
that Phil reviewed his sharpest moves
each year
with octo and nonagenarians
when became the Guardian
at Saint Augustine Friary.
His leading of the singing,
the hymns of Office and Mass,
was an ominous point,
with a stadium voice
that rocked the bleachers
Phil was sure
to keep everyone awake and together.
We salute you, Phil,
rejoicing you are with the big leagues,
but we will miss you
a mighty long, long time.
April 12, 2015
Bonaventure Stefun