A Serene Apocalypse

This play of life,
Is a snowflake
On the pond:
A moment white,
Then gone forever;
Yea, without the Wine,
There is but
The empty cup.

Tears, falling
On the icy brow
Of death,
Can not redeem
The years:
Flowers on the grave,
Cast no
Backward fragrance
Over weary days.

Each small fragment:
Cupfulls of time;
In which our years
Come upon us;
Are buds of being:
Seed times, of a sort,
Unto Eternity:
A serene apocalypse,
In the hands
Of a loving God.