Life

wrote for my brother after our grandfather's death.

A small trickle of water,
a brief moment of sound,
an echo to the past and yet,
a beacon of the future.

Like a lighthouse
worn and torn through time,
showing the edges of the shoreline.
And yet, do we see the harbor,
the port in the storm, Safety?

Like a seed or a leaf blown in the wind,
seemingly fallen yet,
floating on the air of Life,
like a never ending circle.

The ripple of a stone cast into the creek
for a moment it exist,
then gone.

Who reads the ripples of my Life,
the sunshine, the rain, the storms
the waves, the calm, and then
Gone?