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Rest Stop?

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.’’

For most, the journey from helper to helpless

occurs under cover of frenetic lives in which

most strive to be better than they will ever be.


Striving quietly nurtures gardens of hope,

heliotrope and rosemary. Our garden lies on a

slope canted towards a yawning, bottomlessness

whose depth we are destined to plumb.


Will what we have done, or tried to do, survive

our demise? Is a hole in the ground the end of all

loved and unloved who shoved or were shoved

by us?


We have felt out-of-place in earth’s crowded space

and in striving to survive we alter who we are:

We hear the silence, see the invisible, say the

unsayable in futile efforts to know the unknowable.


As the days lose their luminous glow how do we

prepare for the last show. Can what we write

on the last line alter all the above. Perhaps Heaven

is just a rest stop before our final destination?





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