With childish whimsey the restless tide,
grown tired of its play, suddenly ignores
our cries, and slips away a ghost,
leaving empty shells stranded on the shore.
Like silent thoughts they wait,
staring blindly at the disappearing sea.
Are they lost without a driving force,
or simply lifeless now that they are free?
In sheets of glass the summer rainfall scatters
lace-white wings of tiny moths that hover
cloud like — each life a fragile moment —
each moth, a breath of life, unique from all the others.
What then will we learn tomorrow
when the potter beckons from His wheel,
and we, reluctant, hesitate,
afraid to learn the consequences of the 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?