Earthen Rest

Craig French

With old and withered hands he overturns the

Dark, cold soil of his flower bed to expose

What it had purposed for millennia to conceal--

What we were, we are not, but will be.

Looking down the lurid chasm I ask:

"What's it like to finally find your rest?"

Breaking the fleshy seals of his heavy lids

He looks up at me with gray solemn eyes--

His languished lips could only quiver for a time,

Or an eternity--as both seemed to intertwine--

Finally his grave voice rings out in mournful reply:

"You'll never find it through searching, it finds you."

Having spent his final breath in appropriate brevity

His bony hands embrace the earthen blanket--

To his former place returned.

What he was, he is; his slumber now resumes.

With a young , smooth hand outstretched; I touch the

Cold stone--which echoes back with eerie certainty

My own faint, transparent image.