The Visitor . . .

“Marching by – Each carrying a pail of memories – I realize they are a part of me”

A candle in the
window burns in the eve,
as I knock faintly then
turn to leave.

Then the handle begins to
turn, and a voice invites
me in,
guiding me through a
hallway, dark and grey.

There are pictures on the wall,
almost as if they are of me,
from a small child to a girl,
who is now grown and tall.

Another door before me
opens slowly, as I peer in,
there is a room so grand with
an hourglass of passing sand.

A chair sits in the middle
and I take a seat.
There are some little ones,

I ask them come near that we
may meet.

Marching by, they are forlorn,
with garments ripped and torn,
each bearing a pail of memories.
Looking at them I realize they
are part of me.

I give them love,
wash their faces and clean
their shoes, but these things
are not enough and will not do
They respond –
“Please, we are tired and would
find peace and rest. Letting
go of your anxious thoughts
would be best.”

I now see, these children I
have ignored, have been with
me through life’s difficult tests.
Now it is time, as they ask, to
let them rest.

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