Tuesday, May 30, 2017



Forty years my acquisition
Of books have numbered
In the hundreds. A new condition
Now tasks me; I’m encumbered.

All or some?
Which shall I pack?
This or that one?
It’s a huge stack!

It’s not the amount
Of books to flee
Into boxes that’s tantamount.
It’s their departure from me.

But, no. The change in my reality
Is actually my own departure, my leaving.
Not to depart is my plea.
Packing, the gateway, began my grieving.

I must now stop
And catch my breath.
On the holy hill atop
I should not fear death.

Endings, for sure,
Come closer every hour.
Many deaths I endure
Like the life cycle of a flower.

Where went time,
The gift coupled with space?
They, our temporal clime,
I live within that divine grace.

Time and space,
Life lifted from that place,

Dare I say
“Woe is me.”
No pity in play.
Grace is free.