NOT THE MISCHEVIOUS SORT
I don't like paying for things, that's all.
When people die, they die, I suppose,
and that's it - the memory lingers, the
saddest thing in the world. But that's
the only hard part; you've sense they've
gone for the better, for re-writing a
Beingness. Like the old lady who
used to collect holly each Christmas,
for decorations, and throw them away
by mid-January anyway. She stopped
coming around to collect holly branches
from our big, old bush. Now she's gone.
Collectively, a lovely sigh of Freedom
and Deliverence. Yet, at the same time,
a pause and a moment to reflect.
No comments:
Post a Comment