A poem rarely finishes,
because we rarely finish…
or only finish once.

Upon my death
my poems will gather
and say
(some with sadness,
some with wonder,
some with relief),
"Well, that's it then.
No more fiddling."

They will go on with their lives
in whatever state I've left them.

Most will be forgotten
in an old-poem's home,
finally passing quietly.

But they will have lived,
will they not?

 Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.