Corny Butt Hay

Of early citizens’ morning jaunt
Who live or dead shall make no haunt.
For, today will be surely brief.
All their loneliness and tiring grief,
The wherewithal of faith shall reign
To look forward and step back again.
This, your fate creeps forward still
To soar through valleys beneath the hill,
You’ll find you’re face–to-face at last
With the One from whence you’re cast.
So, sleep in peace, and don’t worry your head
Or fret the bones beneath your bed.
Bones are dry and of the world.
They’re not the things of dreams unfurled.