These old bones

These old bones
 
The end of a long life coming up
and I have accomplished nothing;
 
everything’s been a gift and a loan –
like this poem. 
 
I’ve been an intruder upon a dream,
nothing mine, least of all myself.   
 
Lifelong I have engaged
in the business of ideas,
 
rather than investigating the source
of all such insubstantialities.
 
Crumple up this paper and toss it in the fire. 
It might come to some use warming these old bones. 
 
I’ve discovered the wordless truth
of these shaky hands and tired old bones –
 
nothing but the scenery changes;
nothing but the scenery.
 
O child of God, the Mystics say you are a witness
beyond the reach of time, decay and death.