Cyclic
The roads to Heaven are many,
I take the one of little tread,
Winding below the greening hilltop,
Through the grey-splashed briars,
Over fallen branches and trees.
I look up to the summit,
And caravans wind,
In circles of color and gaiety,
Arm in arm they smile in jeweled peace.
Phantasmal glimpses through
My canopy of trees.
I walk where footsteps fall
Like old leaves and teardrops.
Where my companions travel cloaked,
And approach me
Only as I stop for them,
Seldom as they come.
In this exchange, there is serenity,
Something ancient and foretold,
Something yet to be discovered.
I am like to the ancestors
Of the hilltop revelers,
And a companion's wink suggests,
Like to their descendents
Or contemporaries.
And on again I we it circles. So it goes.
