Entering The Winter Years



Entering the “Winter” years, as I am,
Ever more aware of the lowering sun,
I have increasing affection and gratitude,
For the simple fact of existing.

What a mystery, and proof of Grace…
That although I remain, now, as I was in youth…
Wounded, broken, and far from perfection,
She remains ever-near in the Heart…

The Tavern of The Beloved.

There, the weary Vagabond, Attention
Finds Rest and Nourishment,
Healing and Blessing,
And languishes… Besotted by Her eyes.

I hope to die there, when my time comes,
Asleep in an upper room,
Oblivious in Surrender,
Bottle still in hand.

Or perhaps I may drop like a stone,
Here, on the dance floor,
Surrounded by Friends of the Heart,
While spinning in Wonder and Ecstasy.

Or it may be that sitting at the bar…
I will simply rest my head one day,
Unable to hold it up any longer,
Having gazed, Lovingly, so very, very long…

At the Beautiful Innkeeper.