The Hopes of Men

The hopes of men rest in God:
Wearily we have trod and trod,
Yet the end is just the beginning.

Sand fills the world, the shores,
With fruit and grit and darkness,
Depending on how little the wind blows.

Babel falls and falls,
Rising again somewhere else,
Like a transplanted Jenga game.

Pick up the brick,
Pick up your stick,
Lay it back in place,
With reverence and grace,
For this is how the world will end,
With a still voice in a garden grove

———
Another poem in the written and typed stages.  These are poems that are part of my daily rhythm of writing.  Some are good in their entirety.  Some only have good lines.  But they are all my friends.  Or at least acquiantances.