Two score.
Forty bales of experience stacked within the barn loft of extinguishing life.
A fix point of time once traveled.
As if one could time travel.
Yet, an age past, fairly remote from the present, seems as if it could be revisited once again.
To intersect with the loved ones here dearly departed.
How is it that the grim reality of death should so easily be referred to as such.
To have experience loss, to deaden our pain and sorrow.
So, blunt to state these precious ones have died.
Physically gone one might say.
No longer a part of this ole world.
No future bales to stack.
The feed bin overflows with the accumulation of memories.
Those most recent pulled from the top of the bin;
others of time most past, are weighted and mixed together at the bottom.
Some clear as the life giving, bubbling spring water,
Many as muddled as the water carried forth in the old hog slop bucket.
Gone completely, those so little regarded.
Many trampled along the path of a mind so weary and diminished.
Yet, blessed though, as loss leads to room for new experiences;
new relationships to be poured forth from the old gunny sack.
And the time once traveled may be revisited and fed from the feed bin of the mind.
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