Onward

Time has a way of kneading out the knots,

Untangling the string, tracing the true path,

Unveiling to the hindsight what the foresight failed,

In all its lancet-eyed vaingloriousness, to see.

Time, the great killer, is a healer too –

Mellowing pain, and letting wisdom grow

In the dark earth made fertile by bleak fire.

Time does not love us, but we grow in time,

Gaining in strength, in wounds, in memory,

In scars of hate, God willing in love too.

Is there a better way?  Not that we know.

We clutch and climb; we tumble backward, fall;

We rise and climb again, with weary strength,

Not knowing what awaits us on the way,

Or what new vistas glimmer from the peak,

But sure that up is up, and falling’s fine,

And even makes a better story when

We reach the top and meet whoever’s there.

Is all this comfort?  Let’s not hope to say.

But if you pass me on the straggling climb,

And meet my eyes with yours, and speak no word,

I’ll hear, in some far-buried cave in me,

A soundless whisper preach tenacity.