Separation

Separation

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,

Chronological.

Life lifted from that place,

Eschatological.

Dare I say

“Woe is me.”

No pity in play.

Grace is free.