Seasons

The age of reason,

Passed long ago leaving a vacuum

Where once Eden flourished,

The sands of time become drifts of snow.

Now mind and soul lay desolate

Void of anything to cling,

And promises, long discarded,

As one ponders the clock

And plans the day...

Makes toast, tea for supper,

Goes back to bed,

Then wakes up as though an irrational sun shines...

Having nothing better to do.

If there be any virtue,

Any will to live,

Let the loss of all things be endured

For in the harsh wilderness of the ages, and aged

Are found such flowering beauties

That no youthful botanist imagines,

And what was once thought loss is great gain.

To receive a gift

Hands must be emptied

Of such debris as collected on the path

And laid open toward Heaven

Waiting for the pouring of Life into life.