Meeting One’s End

Daily wonderings

As i walk through my neighborhood each morning, I am struck by a random thought.  However absurd it seems, I follow the thread and a story emerges in the form of a poem. Today it was “meeting one’s end,” or “making ends meet.”  Which led me to ponder: How do I want to meet my end? Can I fathom it? Of course not.  Even as I face down the Maw of the corona virus, denial saves me from my worst fear. Or is death what I fear the most?  It seems odd to entertain “dark” thoughts on May day, where Spring’s full bloom is optimism incarnate, the fierce sun burning through fear or foreboding with it’s welcome heat.

Meeting One’s End

What end to meet,

where path falls into sea,

or mountain becomes sky—

tumbling down or gently rising—

stone polished waterfall,

mist over lake;

submerged or wide open,

butterfly or snail,

eyes open, closed, dreaming

or still?

What end becomes me,

one with dirt and star—

blinding light, trampled earth,

mulched leaves,

flowerbed

garden path

cloud spilling rain;

or thoughts strung together

woven through memories

held closely, laid down,

quiet comfort, waiting.

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