into beginnings, middles and ends?
I think about what was there before the beginning.
The potential inside the seed, for example:
something we will never understand,
and always argue about.
The clouds, still holding, not quite ready
to dissolve and reveal
whatever it is that exists beneath them.
I imagine the precise moment the author realized
the person to whom she should dedicate her story,
and proceeded to put pencil to paper.
And the middle. What does that mean, anyway?
What about the quarter-hour
when our hero, on the morning of his epic journey,
remembers a recurring dream about his childhood home,
a tiny brick house covered in lush, rain-soaked ivy?
Or the minutes before the witch stirred her cauldron,
preparing to cast a horrific spell on our dear,
Did she have a moment's pause when she reached
into the cupboard for that final ingredient?
Then there's the ending after the ending:
the blank last page,
the silence after the final applause
during which anything is possible.
But we know
not just anything will do.
Especially when trying to soothe
the deepest ache that arises
after the very end of the story--
the hollow that only forms
with a great love.