Heaven

You heard once that heaven
Is to this world like this world is 
To a reflection of trees in a pond,
The mirror image just an imitation
And a murky one, of the real and glorious
Earth we know.
And that we are always longing for that
Real world, that heaven,
Where things are even clearer,
Never feeling fulfilled here among the oaks.

But when I sit under the branches
Of an ancient twisted evergreen
And smell jasmine on the wind 
And hear the laughter of my children
Holding their soft cheeks to mine
I think that, really, this must be heaven.

How could anything be more glorious?

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