Quenched in the Stream

The dead speak for them selves.
Insects in the ossuary,
The gentle encroachment
Of lichen on the marble
The absence of Your presence.

Banish the notion that
All of us will perish.

Hold fast your grip
On the eternal.

Branches dipped
In the running stream.

Before the flood,
Before the drought,
Before the fire
Takes us all as kindling.