Imperishable
All life is vapor, as are our life stories.
All flesh is grass, and so are all its glories.
But there is yet a time to watch the mists,
To search the grass for beauty that persists:
For glints of that which does not fade or wither,
Cannot be bought and worn like gold and silver.
A sight which hints, instead, of things unfading:
Along the shore, a woman wending, wading,
She bends to gather shells she’ll stow away
Collected to give to someone, someday.
Or round the mountaintop, she gathers flowers
And greets a stranger, stops to talk for hours,
Returns home late, and stoops to prayer, not rest,
Refreshed by well-worn paths that guide the blessed.
A gentle spirit, with an open door,
Who gives the tea and bread she has, and more,
She gives an answer for her hope with glee,
That joy that lasts until eternity.
Sarah Reardon is a wife, mother, and former teacher. Her writing has appeared in Plough, Ekstasis Review, Reformed Journal, and elsewhere.
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