Of Last Things

As I awoke this morning with an urge to write of nothing in particular, I thought of endings I have written of before. and of the many times nostalgia that I hated as a youth, settled once again upon its throne of reverie and I, weak-spirited, would welcome it again, my mindless old reward for having staved-off dying one or two more years. This flimsy basket filled with tear-stained baubles still so comforting, how cliche-worn... No! Centuries not yet come or gone, will tremble in the wake of one last handshake that I made, one final, intense gaze into the eyes of someone you might never even know, go in the archive of creation-- and its opposites! Those, too, were hands that engaged mine, focused eyes upon a moment binding me forever in the sweep of history as breath and cataclysm each prevail and joins the line of march. Comfort indeed that here is not the arbiter of truth. Here I am fed, and the uncertainty is my sustainer. I too tremble with the dawn, and in my sleep-logged mind I trace again the little moments when I sighted Paradise and quickly left because it was too much. Now they are gone. I no longer see these last things in my basket, yet I know they live somewhere. I sense them, feel their strange intensity and stranger still, their fortitude revealed in my prophetic daydreams of a life beyond the grave. Or then, perhaps, an astral prophecy of now? ~