DYING, THE FLOWERS

Destiny is not in the habit of revealing itself--no matter what degree the acuity of your wit...
Not even "just a little bit".
The greatest propensity of Fate is to keep you guessing,
Bewildering you with the patterns of its weave and complexity of its knit
Until, ultimately, it finds for you its perfect fit.
Wherein, only then, all will be revealed--
You can count on it....
Who was that woman below,
Appearing as if be to asleep in the trash and the snow?
And what were those flashing lights of red, blue and blinding white?
And just why was it, no one noticed such an unusual sight,
As floating, naked, vaporous her?...
And as all around her began to waver--become a swirling, indiscernible blur--
She felt herself being swept-up, in the exhilaration of suddenly vanishing from this earth:
A feeling of great thrill...a sensation of rebirth!
The world, and all its sorrows of a hard-lived twenty-five years, were far behind her now--
Gone, like so many beads of sweat poured from a hurried and over-worked brow;
Gone, it seemed, in the brief span of a wink and a nod:
Forgotten...as she reveled, swimming in a tear shed of an overwhelmed eye of God.