A daughter's note begins a journal from long ago taped to the first page saying I love you. Time and seasons allow such words to guide us into mystery in a meaningful way.
Only after so many years is it even possible to become comfortable living in mystery. And, then, to be followed by the blessing of being made uncomfortable again.
Trailing a chased desire turned memory, Age creeps and twists to white life's diadem. The bench of old men sit in reverie Asking wisps of air shimmering before them: “Where did our time go?” Hours fade and turn. Withering petals whirl and glance to ground. “To dust?” Not yet. Ashes of flesh still burn, Yearning for the touch of a lover soon found. Hidden among pale towns in and out of mist She dances on lanes of glittering stone. Outstretched arms encompass all and, kissed, Inhabitants touch their cheeks, each alone. Wonder grows and grows to eternity. Human and being wrapped in mystery.