Till Then
By Scott Newport
Our race is often
long and without sight
homesick for a finish line-
a moment to rest
Our weary eyes listen-
the distant call
a light reflection
of the weeping, setting sun
In my present- like dreams
I imagine his unimpeded breath
but my waking moments squeak,
“You’re not there yet”
We learn to love
the gentle down slopes
knowing the predictable steep hills
will never cease (not even at the next bend)
We embrace for now
the little ones we carry
the weight
we tarry till their death