The Fulness of Time

There are moments
When the wail of winds
Perfectly match
The wail of widows
Of sirens
Of screaming discord.

There are times
When the hush of breezes
Perfectly match
The shush of nursing mothers
Of stirring grasses
Of falling leaves.

There are seasons
When the wayward heart
Cries for joy
Weeps at loss
Is silent and withdrawn
Or racing in anticipation.

We are the sum of our dreams
Minus the dread of our fears
Multiplied by the length of our years
Divided by the number of our passions.

The moments
Seasons and times of life
Press the heart into
A universe of desire
A cosmos of care
A warehouse of hope
A sea of sorrow.

The ages
Gather around us
The way the womb
Gathers the infant
For the approaching advent.

We await the fulness of time.