End well, says my friend,
and I think of Beethoven,
how his final symphony
was a triumphant masterpiece,
a unifying ode to joy.
And I think of the time
we ran the Grand Canyon
for weeks and on the last night
we tied the boats together
and floated all night and laughed
and laughed and laughed.
There’s the Rilke poem
about a marble torso
in which he closes with
You must change your life.
And espresso at the end
of a meal, how the dark bitter cup
leaves the mouth
in an warm O of ecstasy.
But it isn’t always easy to end—
saying goodbye to a faraway friend.
Ending a kiss. Leaving the beach.
Turning the last pages of a book.
So I think of the rabbitbrush
that fill the field—how long
they hold their gold. Until
it’s cold and they fade
and it seems like the end—
but then, if I should shovel
across them, or walk through them
in the early snow, oh the perfume
they release then—evergreeen
and earthy, herbaceous and cool.
Sometimes to end well
is to offer more
when it all seems done.
Sometimes to end well
Is to surprise everyone
with one more gift.