“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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