Friday poem

I'm posting an original poem every Friday for a year. This is 33/52 I think. A poem about trying to be in the present moment.

The End of the World

So that was it, then.

No fire, just a moment for even

the least believer to stop and wonder,

what if it were true?

The world made new,

and we shed our yesterdays like winter wool.

Every one of us redeemed to a

perfect world, new bodies exactly the age and

ache of our old.

Hands perfectly modeled on our own, that perfect

scar carved by a fall from a

high sycamore half a century ago.

We'll know our old selves are gone

by the small symphony of light

playing off a fencepost.

A starling

swoops and careens

just short of the glass, a miracle of angles.

The marvel of rough shoes

on this stone path.

We've been here

before; we know how this story ends.

When the last day comes we'll lie back in low grass

and hold our child up to the cobalt sky,

shading our faces.

Small laughter

will rain down on us

and we'll be washed clean.

But it's time again, now,

just now.

Another new world.

Do you feel it?

Perfect aging bones,

the sun

newly born just this morning.