Roselawn

Will there be a time when we, as in a dream, possibly a lucid dream, come upon a book of stories and, curious, we open it, feel its heft, become aware of its many, many pages, begin to read one of them, and find it and all the others are us, our life's story? - Our lives - particles and waves. The observer might see only contradiction. We don't see. We feel. Sense, with more or less clarity, the oneness, the transitions, some smooth, others not, from the bits and the fragments to the glow and the flow. We are both. Because we too are light. Images, however remote, of The Light. - The first was life . . . drawn across the sky, the moon, the earth, mine it was, the images, so quickly did they go, then gone, from sight and eye. Now . . . now it is afterlife I see with such clarity . . . hers and mine and all the beloved, the few who chose to be, and to be so close to me. Am I going, or is it they who are growing . . . small?