When the Pages End

Upon each day a pen was floating,

Recording with eternal ink

The flavors of your life, denoting

Lines whose forms would find a link

To others’ stories. Every word

Was written down and lives

Within a book that was referred

To me. But what it gives

Is not enough to satisfy

My curiosity.

The story stands unfinished. Why

Do no more words find space to be?

What happens when the pages end

But more is left to write?

I cannot say, but I will tend

This garden sown with seeds tonight

Until your tale bursts forth in me

To grace the dawn’s expectant light.

I just reached the end of one of the journals I use when writing poetry, and this was the poem I wrote on that last page. Now I'm starting to work through some new ideas in a new book...