In the future when I'm a ghost,
I'll write to you like a snail,
slowly shaping my words
into cursive curls encircling
messages to lead you on.
"Keep going," I'll write
because I'll know the worth
of your path, made of circles too
but winding up, up
to nebulous tomorrows.
And many years after your death,
you'll see it.
Not just the value of your life,
but all lives, All.
I promise you such a surprise.
You'll never guess how humanity survives.
In order not to spoil the ending,
I'll give only one tiny hint:
Those millions of questions?
They all have the same answer.
(Today at Dverse Poets, Grace has us writing to ourselves from the future.)