Musings About Mortality

The wren's fragile bones

rot in winter's frosted field.

Its heart was broken

by bitter storms and blizzards.

O life is marred by

the suffering of precious,

little things! Mercy,

Beauty and Grace are so rare

in a hostile world.

If only Love, and its soft

caresses, would heal

and unite scattered fragments

of Being in Time.

I still search for answers to

burning questions, that

seem like, a lifetime's labour.