Unbend the weight; the senses leaving,
Retract the visions in the head,
In some other wandering grove
Another day is nearly dead.
From far across the nestled years,
Now the footsteps find the bed.
Murmured syllables, thinning breath,
Nothing left to wake forthwith;
Eyelids open, turn inside,
No resurrection is attendant,
The still flame rises like burning air
To the place where no thing’s there.
Adrift goes time, like heavy mist,
And pauses before ‘day’ and ‘night’;
Unhurried moments come in waves,
The shadow moves like drifting light.
In that fullness, a garden grows
And all is peace in heaven’s fold.
Patti Masterman
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/heaven-s-fold/
