After doing enough of this and that we die;
the life on Earth that continues is not ours.
Snows alternate with seasons of bright flowers.
The things we thought we’d get to by and by
remain undone, unsaid. Erosion scours
the minds of those who knew or knew about us.
The calm we had contemplated as a dream
becomes for us reality. We sleep.
Earth Tourist
recently posted poems by alan reynolds
Calm is a great title for this poem. It reads like a pool of calm acceptance.
Thanks, Elise.