Which is Heaven?

When standing on the bridge
between now and then
I find I grow confused:
which is which?
Is now the mix of flowers and weeds,
the confusion and the plethora?
Is then the carefully manicured lawn,
where everything will be orderly,
divided into yes and no,
into play-here and safe
and don't-play-there; not-safe?
Or is now the tidy, cropped illusion
and then the wonderful profusion
of color, growth and decay,
each containing seeds of future,
born of past?
And who built the bridge
on which I stand?
Could I,
having stepped off into the abyss between,
still reach the other side?


* * *