River Stones

The old ones walked a path down to the river.
Each in their own time became a river stone.
My whole life is leading me there now.

I will take my place at the outer edge
of the stone assembly so I can see
both ways, inconspicuously.

When I look forward, the stones
will gleam like multicolored jewels
strung in vast celestial constellations.

Looking backward, everyone, regardless
of any personal persuasion, walks the path
towards this river streaming out of mind.

One can’t help but feel a surging sense
of satisfaction gazing down the length of time,
appreciatiing each stone for its inestimable worth.

There’s an elegant sufficiency to that display,
of which any further verbal elaboration
would surely prove a superfluity.

When the river merges in an ocean of bliss,
imagine a sea of fireflies. Yet before this stream
even begins, a lone light illuminates an infinite dark.

 

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