Sonnet

They speak about it sometimes in sermons and songs;
Also in parades with big brass bands, the idea is there;

When a lone crow flies and his absence unaware,
It may be for this same place he does long.

From whence we come, then we shall return Rack up the bottles and count them, enter
the tally;
Not that it matters, henceforth as one ascends weightless from the valley;

With our forebears we shall mingle, nothing more to discern.

And why should we seek this garden of
eternal mindfulness?
To no more feel the sting of dreams gone to shit? Because we’ve tired, unsuccessfully, of trying to get over it;
A butterfly dreams of shedding it’s wings crawling back into the crysalis.