Eight days ago, my friends lost their son. The next morning I sat by the river, feeling my pain, their pain, the accumulated pain of loss, too many children gone before their time. And the leaves rained down as I sat on my bench, and the river water flowed … flowing, dropping, life-cycles and ancient rhythms continue endlessly . . .
Another leaf falls
while one hangs on for autumn splendor
dropped from a lower branch, less travel time.
Rebirth, the unfulfilled promise, waits for its time
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Another child gone and winter sets in.
I pray an early spring for those in the season of sorrow.
A line from his tribute: We are left with a raw gaping agonizing hole in our hearts which nothing can fill, even though we know he is safe in God’s arms.
Human tears are older than the rain.