The Lost Art of Ending

We do not end well.
We wither. We linger.
We dry up, turn brown or grey.
Shrivel. Fade. Atrophy
until all the vibrance of what came before
leaves in small steps to heaven
unwilling, or unable to go
all at once.

About this poem

Inspired, of all things, from noticing a change in journalism over the past decade or so (I am a total newshound). As late as a decade ago, articles written by good journlists often started strong and ended strong. It was part of their art. Today articles are often written well, but somehow, end weakly, almost undoing all the good writing before. This is particularly true of sports journalism, which typically has the weakest endings of all.

And this made me think of the seven years I spent as a hospice chaplain. And fall. And the breakups of romance. Poetry is never about one thing.

And for the record, because when I write a poem like this someone always asks, I am not on my way out or even anticipating my way out. My life and energy are still good.

The photograph was taken last fall, in the abandoned quarry across the street.

Be well. Travel wisely,

Tom