This time around
Friends of mine tour
Europe.
Some attend the Super
Bowl.
Others go to Yosemite or
the Big Apple,
Africa, China, the Middle
East;
rock concerts, skydiving,
sailing the high seas.
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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