As you grow older, closer to
light, abyss, memory,
as you read about strangers’ deaths
in acquaintance obituaries,
as you contemplate so many strangers–
Do you long for more quietude, less of?
Are mountains no longer for climbing and
were they ever, always?
Can you now, finally, hear the words?
They are mouthed in the fragrance of sunwash
and light on water and ancient tongues.
Seek the Lord.
My Writing Life 