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The sage was hard to find,
and shook his head when he was asked
about a world view.

He said there was a goal in it.
Always some contaminant emerged
to take away the lustre of a selfless act
so death could not complete its liturgy
and leave behind a vacuum, a question mark
for history to ponder.

There was all its cheap nobility
wrapped up in stars and sentiment
and laid away in calligraphic etching
for a century or two,
sending out its last faint paeans
to a life that living souls
cannot quite remember.

Then it's over,
just a plastic immortality
conceived and specially marketed
and not at all for honor's sake;
that's in the doing.  No,

it's for the feast!...the eucharist
of man, with all its polished ware,
the chosen word thrown out
into the midnight air
and like the wine, no more...

He never finished;

those wide ones
must grown tired of chasing glory down.
They really shouldn't have to.
"Virtue is its own reward," we say.
and even then we peer across the room
for one confirming orb of light
or see, that shiver of delight,
or strain to hear the praise
tht we can modestly protest.


The sage is dying, as are we
who would do well to leave
some better gifts behind than memory bestows,
or paper stars, or flights to Mars,

or an eroding stone.
We would do well to rest
our fading eyes that scan the shiny toys
we fashioned from the rust of long ago,

and drawing from that ancient love
the universe first knew, ourselves refined
create as the creator might
still have in mind.
                  ~

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