The End

What is at the end:
the end of a moment,
              of an hour,
              of a day,
              of a week,
              of a month,
              of a season,
              of a year,
              of a decade,
              of a life,
              of a century,
              of a millennium,
              of time?

What is at the end—
              a beginning.

After Childe Hassam’s The Room of Flowers

oil on canvas, 1894

The flowers yes—
but more the light and the lone wooden rocker
inviting an impression of conversation—
                 —back-and-forth—back-and-forth—

The parlor is landscaped in shades of music and art.
                 The tone is the relaxed passage of time.

Celia Thaxter collected on the couch,
book in hand, legs stretched and crossed through summer dress:
as her own vase, stems and bloom.

Might I sit in the rocker,
like the composed day before her?
The room must smell of lavender and the color yellow.

I’ve asked her what she is reading—
She recites shifting lines
                 of color and light.

She stops—
“Frederick will be by at four o’clock.”

Soon then,
                 might I be added to the canvas
                 to live as these images
                 and rest for an eternity?

Dear Edmund C. Bentley

There was a girl named Clara Who
And being a Who knew what to do –
When all the What’s and Why’s and How’s
Would take her hand and offer vows.