Crossing the Bridge

The other side of the bridge

is a place I’ve never been.

That distant land is different.

There are huge clouds

pierced by sunlight in front

of me: just out of reach.

Trees 300 feet high. Eyes

looking down from the sky.

Nothing but love and peace.

Those on the other side visit

us now and again when we

least expect it: in dreams,

songs, the weather –

rain drops falling from above.

Those on the other side

let us know that we are loved.

They come to remind us that

it will be okay. We’ll join

them some day. We walk on this

bridge floating over a void –

an abyss. We march on with

memories, thoughts, and feelings

in our bachpack: not knowing

when we’ll reach the other side.

We keep walking with our chest

out and head high. The closer we get,

the more we forget. We wonder

where the time went. We begin to

understand the meaning of

our journey. We are in no hurry

to cross the bridge. There are

others waiting for us with big

smiles and arms open wide.

When we arrive, we’ll wait for

the next wave of people to cross.

We’ll find what was once lost.

We’ll guide them like those

before us and those before

them. We’ll carry the light; we’ll

walk together all day and night.