In loss, in change,
In time’s decay,
In all the things
That once were
Dreams and now
Are changed,
In scars, in wrinkled
Lines which tell
A story which was
Going somewhere;
The still small voice
Calls out to ears
Now tuned to hear
The softened hush –
Like summer’s silent
Morning breeze.
And on warm currents
Chasing Winter’s cold
And drying Spring’s
Wet weeping, comes
The sound of hope in
Grass-greening refrain,
Drawing the soul
Ever-forward towards
The unwritten tomorrow:
“Not what has been, but what will be.”