Hundred Loose Ends

Only when the rug is pulled from under our feet

Toppled, lying motionless, looking from the bottom-up

Do we see life as it is

Not the squared circle imagined, but something rather incomplete

Words, a quarter left to say, intentions, two thirds on the way

Everything left behind in process, a hundred loose ends

And as we lay quiet, stargazing, fixed point

Our hands no longer able to grip, or shape the world

It would seem only feeble bodies have closure, for we are masters of nothing

But the unfinished symphony, first line poem and the love affair, all too brief

Yet time, which cares not a jot, if we should reach the mountain top

Is a mere calculous, an earthly abacus, not in charge, not God

So, perhaps there is a life beyond to balance the books

Where the almost done, nearly won, break blue ribbons, as well as sweat

For now, though, all seems patches, tears, and mends

The story of becoming, and our going, a hundred loose ends