In the Center

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.