There’s a river of glad in these petals,
deep veins of song,
and I’m rich because of their music,
how they swirl their poetry
generous over my eyes
till my soul is humming along

about how sweet the way of seasons
and sunshine and shadow,
and as their joy invites me
lean in close
I listen to them sing their lasts

like wise ones so full of living
at the end
who murmur grateful
about how faithful the love that kept them,
how wasteful the rush,
how needless the worry
how glad for even the hard wind blowing
that gave them their chutzpa
and stirred their muchness bright.

Their colors twirlng praise
for the grace that walks them home
and as their song trickles down peace
I catch a glimpse
…the old woman of me
many years from now,
her seasoned eyes shining with the memory
of my still-to-come.

 And nodding that it had been so good  to be,
that  there’d been nothing to fear.
God had this….had it all along
and this journey,
every second of it mine
not to strive
but to enjoy