By Ramey Channell
I grow weary of poetry
when I see the way the end will be:
a slight stuttering of the universe,
a quiet pause, then undefined eternity.
A small light,
then, uncharted night,
and a few angels wafting.
I grow inquisitive and loosely buoyant
when I think of angels wafting.
What they do and why they do it
is celestial and mostly mystery.
All I know
is dig a hole, plant a seed,
and watch for miracles.
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