This time around
Friends of mine tour Europe.
Some attend the Super Bowl.
Others go to Yosemite or the Big Apple,
rock concerts, skydiving, sailing the high seas.
Africa, China, the Middle East.
Fine and wondrous adventures
I will miss out on this time around.
These things are not what I care for.
These things are not what I lack.
This time, when I kick the bucket
I want it to ring hollow,
resounding in the chill air
throughout the somber countryside,
tolling for my Lord and for myself,
for this brief stretch of our adventure as companions
this time around on my arduous trek back to Union.
O child of God, everyone is on their way home
by as many routes as there are wayward souls.
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