Our lives come and go like the blossoms on a tree
A story told by many voices
It cannot be conveyed with any accuracy
Beyond that of dates and time
For the rest remains a secret
Nothing can describe.
Neither plan nor preparation maps our path
For it meanders like the tributaries of a river
Into unknown clearings
Stopping short of perfection
Clinging to the goodness found
Loving where it can that night owl of wisdom
Belonging to a tribe of people
Who at the end pick up the petals
And put them in a drawer
Saying this was he or she
Who we came to know
Whose name in an address book
Brings tears to our eyes
This was a life.

Love Mary ***