The world is a burlap sack,

Rough to the moving finger

Of the present.


We storytellers

Can see that the fabric

Stretches, endless,

Into infinity,

Each thread a life,

And death but another turn

Of the spinster’s wheel.


O, Horatio! Virgil, Ishmael!

Dearest Scout Finch;

Only we invisible ones

Have pricked

Our unthimbled thumbs

Sewing course thread

Into hasty seams.


From all who have penned

The final word of a final page

To all those who ever will:


Cherish endings–

They are scarcer

Than beginnings.


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