SLOW RIVER

So, that’s our Mystery. We’re about done.
We’ve spoken verses about what went before,
drawn versions of the present day, and run
with visions of the stuff that lies in store.

Away to the West, sunset orange clouds
are reddening with gold and silver dues.
My hopes, our hopes, lie East where crazy crowds
of age-old stars are peeking through the blues.

One day they too will go, or be transformed,
torn apart, made cold . . . or perhaps reborn.
For now, I’ll breathe the freshening breaths I have
and try to come together in myself.

In time, I’m going to close my tiring eyes
and think myself to peacefulness nearby.