We put these offerings out
into the blunt nothing of tomorrow,
then wheel about and drift off
impatient to gather more
and all our works and amusements
all delights and suffering
sliding into yesterdays
they will waste until our bones
are no more than a smear
beneath a rubble
until we and everything
known to our kind
have vaporized and seeded the cosmos
and somewhere the light is lifting
and fragments gather into wholes
And so we watch and wait
Marking our time by trivial fears.
Yet the larger wheel of truth does
Turn, but just too slowly for our tears.
( thanks for forwarding the poem…it’s lovely)
Thanks for your response. I love it.