the ends unwoven in

the ends unwoven in—strange

how the brain is programmed to

seek finality, find closure, in lives

undesigned for neat conclusions.

we play a finite number of times,

but never know the last one—no

final certainty to calculate back,

we can only assume that we will

go on forever.

the snow melts before the snowman

is finished. the scarf knit only so far—

someday, I will put it down, and someone

else will pick it up and bind it, weave in

the ends. maybe not the scarf—the last

dish in the sink, the poem half-written,

the melody with no chords under it. live

with the fact that it stops, someday,

mid-stream—live with the fact there will

be detritus of a life. someone else someday

will clean up after me, will find a thousand

things undone, incomplete,

unresolved