From Nate Wilson's Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl:
"Every soul waits in the wings. Every life taken in age, tired and ready, taken in youth, in shock and sorrow, taken in pain or taken in peace, every needle now hidden in shadow waits in eager silence. I see my cousin. My nephew. Many faces, forgotten by those who followed behind, known always by the author who needs no stone reminders. He is the best of all possible audiences, the only Audience to see every scene, the Author who became a character and heaped every shadow on himself...
"The last pages approaches, reached only through trials and triumphs, tears and laughter. The ending comes. But God is too big for endings, too big to work with a single narrative arc. This will be the end of Death, the end of a story that began in a garden and has played out in gardens ever since. Let us bury Death in a garden, and seal the hole with a cross. For him there will be no Spring. There is a rustling of impatience. Anticipation. Creation creaks and groans, tired of shadow, tired of Winter. The sun comes. The corn will see the morning.
"Through the long cold, I wait for the Spring. I watch for it, but I never see the moment of its arrival. The sun warms me, reminds me. Be grateful, it says. I have broken the Winter. On the south side of my house, the crocuses are up in bunches. They are the most greedy for spring, the first to notice and explode. Daffodils will follow soon.
After them will come the sailors."