Early On, There's a Point to Regret

Early On, There's a Point to Regret
Early on, there's a point to regret:
In creative pain, one can make changes.
Grief is a wild, foolish, helpless rebellion,
Heart against stone, desire smashing against
The locked fact, the impenetrable event,
Yielding nothing but the wash back into life.
For one who grieves, there's no point to regret:
One lives through pain, it's not a time for changes,
Undoing in one's heart what one must accept in life,
Repositioning the precise stones one smashes and smashes against.
Ed Was a Black and White Paint Quarter Horse
Ed was a black and white paint quarter horse.
He died around the age of fifteen years.
We cannot share his inner world, of course:
Such loveliness lies far beyond our tears.
He came to us beaten and afraid,
But in about a year he chose to love,
Never questioning the choice he made,
Nor from that passion did he ever move.
It wasn't mere acceptance or compulsion
That made him such a gentle, loving friend.
Some innocence of which we have no notion
Gave him a depth we cannot comprehend.
He loved us with a dignity and grace
We cannot hope to answer or replace.

Every moment sings with fascination
Every moment sings with fascination
As silence sits behind the vivid veil.
There is no rock not rife with revelation,
Nor word that will not ultimately fail.
Likewise, we are masks upon the void,
Uncreated at our empty core,
Mirror of what cannot be destroyed,
The nothing that the thing is destined for.
The being of our being is delight;
The nothing of our nothing, pure perfection.
Just beyond our day is utter night;
Just within our heart, its blank reflection.
The gift of life brings joy well worth the pain;
The gift of death brings us home again.
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