An end comes, eventually.
I struggle with that. Don’t you?
But hear me out.
I dreamt once of my age, at my ending.
Not too close, still closer than it used to be.
Later, when a terrible loss tore me in two,
It also reminded me that,
Like the most exquisite flower,
death will come.
Without an ending, in the race
To leave something of note behind,
Living has little meaning.
Time is precious, time is short.
From my center this made a
Great fountain spring forth,
Sometimes clear and cold,
Sometimes bitter like the Dead Sea,
Sometimes deep endless blue, like the Pacific,
It is a lash; it is a comfort.
It is a river for the journey.
It makes a shore to walk along,
measured by the waves.
Mere weeping makes less the
Depth of grief, yet
Time is a nurse and the bringer of all good.
All the while, in the center, a wellspring
Lives. For a while longer.
