The words are clearer as they fade,
like etchings on a grave.
You search for meaning,
I take them at their face.
Practically and mathematically,
we have only so many days to live.
We can fill them with joy,
or the things we miss.
But I still find myself leaning,
at some greater grace.
Now the rhythm is getting slower,
blood thickens with age.
But as the heart grows older,
it increases in shape.
The rain stops, as quickly as it came,
the flood averted, the ground satiated just the same.
You ask me what it means.
I have no answer, so simply reply,