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.