The End...

3.31  Journey’s End

Rest now sweet muse

whose weary arms

have carried me

have dragged me

have shoved me

all of these days

some more frequent

some less eloquent

to this point

this precipice

of windswept rock

where sheep do not 

dare to graze

I turn to look toward

the beginning

my back to the abyss

my face to 

that bustling month

which stretched on for 

twelve

each endeavor a small flag

stuck wherever it might hold

rock outcropping

clump of heather

barren valley so unwelcoming

a hammer couldn’t have 

planted the flag

and the line of fluttering soldiers

so white

so fragile

could lead me back there

to that mewling pup

whose photo I still carry

instead I turn again

to the wind and the

fury of the sea

before me

and shout back

until I feel my words

gathering like wings

and the lift is so tremendous

so terrifying

so brutal

so beautiful.

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This marks the end of my year of poetry.  

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