By the time I am done
shoveling snow, already
two more inches
have covered the drive
where I first began to shovel.
This is how it always is.
Unfinished. Like the dishes
that find their way to the sink
just after the last dish is done.
Or the dust that already
starts to collect on the piano
right after the duster is gone.
Or the words I wish I would
have said but could not find
when you were here, how they
rush in the moment
you leave. There is always
more to be said, to be done,
to be heard, to be lost.
Just last week that pain
that I have been living with,
it left, just for a little bit,
and then, just as I began
to believe it was gone
it was back full bore.
Oh life, thank you for
all the returns. For the cat bowl
that always needs to be filled,
for the hunger that never quite
goes away, for the love
that changes and changes again,
for the snow that continues
to fall and for whatever mystery it is
beneath inside around above
it all that never ever changes.