All is what it seems
in the reverent hour of discovery;
temporal eddies of thought
wind in circling lassitude,
emptying into still pools,
there received and solaced.
Wanderers on the other side walk
softly through the smoky mists
of almost knowing,.
leaking color on the path to expiation,
signposts for followers,
glossing over fear and hag-ridden uncertainties.
There is no end, but all beginning
and morning is inevitable,
pouring light over.
© Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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