The end comes, eventually.
I struggle with that. Don’t you?
I dreamt once I was told
My age when I’ll die.
Later, when a loss tore me in two,
The dream reminded me:
Without an ending,
Living has less meaning.
Time is finite, though, so
Time is precious.
Facing this conjures the Authentic.
A fountain sprang
From the center of me.
Sometimes clear and cold,
Sometimes bitter, like the Dead Sea,
Sometimes a deep, endless Pacific blue.
The fountain is both a whip and a comfort.
It is the river of my journey.
It can be a shore to walk along.
It sweeps forever into the future.
Mere weeping makes less the depth of grief, yet
Time is a nurse, the bringer of all good.*
In the center, a spring
For a while longer.