So that is all life is: a darkening trail;
a coin once flipped and idly caught again;
a former lover’s final correspondence;
a ruined cathedral; a probing blame-filled glance . . .
is that all life is? a clearance sale?
a fire gone out? a broken useless pen?
the silence that always follows a sentence?
a scattered rose? a sigh? a squandered chance?
Yet—evening reflections on the pond,
and purple-veiled icons at Lent. Feeble
winter sunlight strengthens. Tiny sandals
by the door. A house tidied. Beyond
the playhouse, a tree planted. The smallest evil
mended. In the dark, pinpricks of candles.
—J. C. Scharl
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