It’s me that remains here, where everywhere else the glory rises.
The eggs are ready for hiding, colored carefully by the dawn’s inner light.
The stones, I’ve been rolling them from the hole in the Earth.
The weather cannot be accounted for, until the day it comes.
My plans for the afterlife match the plans I live by now.
The only difference is the story I forever follow mentions me now and then.
I cannot change the plot.
I am not counting the dead, but I probably should.
Their stones still stand stiff on the edge of town.
I am not surprised that all looks the same today as it did on Saturday.
The vanity lies only in my thinking.
I would like to have that undone for me.
The pure black days of torment are happily over.
Such a shock to my system to think it has happened like this.
The table is set for supper and the housewarming.
I need flowers. In the mid-day when the light is more full
I will set out to pick some purple ones.
Tom on Few Days Tom on Few Days Tom on Few Days smilecalm on Few Days den169 on Few Days
Blogs I Follow
- POETRY PASSION
- Jerry Brotherton
- The Flyleaf Wordsmith
- Real as the Streets
- Site Title
- Diary of an Aesthete
- Boundless Blessings by Kamal
- Wings Of Poetry
- l i g h t room
- Minal Dalal Co-Creator
- Mauna Sangha
- hedgerow: a journal of small poems
- Sacred Touches
- Sat Sangha Salon
- Writers together