The Open Plain

.

Time passes slowly on the open plain

Among the lolling trees;

Across the rows of sprouting grain

Swaying in the breeze;

Upon the fertile, furrowed earth

And piles of crisp, brown leaves;

And underneath the rippling pond

That whispers as it sleeps.

.

Nothing really changes much

In this contented scene.

They have no hollow drivenness

And no pretended needs.

Everything they do is built

On fundamental things,

And fundamentals never change—

There never is a need.

.

For it’s Time himself who tests

Each and every thing they do:

He puts them through their paces

And most often, he approves.

For they are well acquainted

And they know the work he’ll do:

He tears away pretension,

Leaving only what is True.

.

So, knowing the techniques

And all the tools he employs,

That each day’s an opportunity—

Their one thing he destroys—

They roll-up their sleeves, and every day

They make the conscious choice

To savor all their hearty work

And drink their simple joys.

.

And in this quiet corridor

Beneath the lazy moon,

Father Time strolls along

And hums a friendly tune.

And frequently he stops and sits

In this, his favorite room

And lingers here, reclining,

‘Til at last, he must resume.

.

But even when he’s back to work

His hand is not severe;

It’s only with the faintest touch

He does his business here.

And even in the twilight

When the yawning grave is near,

Folks here don’t fear Father Time—

They have no need for fear.

.

For they know that when he ushers them

Through that open door,

When he breaks the bowl, and their soul

Is from its body poured:

They’ll enter into paradise,

He’ll give them to the Lord…

And from that day and onward, they—

And Time—will work no more.