I love what builds toward an easy end,
neither shirking existence nor denying oblivion—
the way all life must tend.
No sentimental “death-is-a-friend,”
but water in an artesian spring
building gentle pressure toward an easy end
when it bubbles forth again.
Perfect equilibrium—
the way all life must tend.
We the storm-tossed finally struck land
where we had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun,
as we built slowly toward our easy end
(sweet company befriending
us at every turn—earth’s beautiful illusions)—
the way all life must tend
as it builds to a relief we can’t withstand.
Finally, our time is done.
I love what builds toward an easy end—
the way all life must tend.
