Just as each rain drop is not lost,
but becomes part of the pool
without which ripples are not possible,
and just as the summer sun, crystallised
in the brittle bronze leaves of autumn
succumbs at last to gravity,
falls,
and is swept into the fire
that releases its captive light,
and its substance disperses in the form of billowing smoke,
briefly illuminated by the conflagration,
before receding into the darkness of the lengthening night
where the cold is bright with the astronomies of winter,
and as every failure at the tables merges with the calculus
of odds,
all futilities fusing together in the grand aggregation of
outcomes,
and every ruin foundation to some success,
so as we progress from the clarity of strident youth,
through maturity and years of service to love in all its
forms,
to the confusion and yearning of perplexed old age,
and eventually yield to the final absence and entropy
that waits to claim us,
we are not lost
but become one at last with an infinite night,
studded with ten hundred thousand stars
becoming at once nothing
and more than we can ever imagine.
No comments:
Post a Comment