Though usually one may feel an absence of Presence,
Why not let that absence feed the fires of remembrance?
Either way, absent or present to Presence, there's gain, not loss,
As spirit's workings erode who we think we are.
It's all our labor of love, this grinding or eating away,
Whether we feel it as a burden or a gift of mercy.
Perhaps it's the only real price to pay,
The only real ticket of admission to the Beloved's courtyard.