In childish whimsy the evening tide,
now tired of its play, suddenly ignores
our cries, and slips away a ghost,
leaving empty shells stranded on the shores.
Like sheets of glass the summer rainfall scatters
clouds of tiny lace-white moths that float and hover,
each life, a single shining moment. Each moth,
a breath of life, unique from any other.
What then will we learn on some
tomorrow when the Potter beckons from
His wheel, and we, reluctant, hesitate
afraid to face the truth of what is real.
When we lift the veil of ignorance at last,
will we learn the innermost of heaven and hell?
Or, like the empty shells upon the shore,
will we simply lay bemused and never tell.
Jeannie Hope Gibson