Postcard
I’ve stashed away a strange postcard: the picture’s rarely clear, yet now and then, as I regard its frame, I catch a passing shard of somewhere unlike here.
The world it shows seems Eden-fair, in glimpses, now and then: a flash of green, a golden ray – peace-fruiting trees, unending day – and unstained yet of sin.
I crave to glimpse this cherished land, yet it oft eludes my sight, for sometimes, taking card in hand, I find the image blank and bland, and all seems dim as night.
How aches my soul, when thus defied! How faint the mem’ry seems of peace and love – good fruit supplied abundantly, with none denied – truest life, resigned to dreams.
This mystifying card I hold so captivates my being; if this be true that I behold when I survey its ink and fold, what lie prevents my seeing?
Or is the lie within its frame — idyllic idle thoughts? For certain, life looks not the same: the trees of earth bear fruit of shame, of rage, of conflict fought.
No, I will keep this silver card, and choose its better story; though love bear hurt, and hope be hard, though Peace be blasted by petard, I’ll search for sight of glory.