there are too many words, maybe
i don’t have enough of them at the ready.
the beginning always takes such effort -
stringing along the words,
stitching them together
in long skeins across time and
remember me when i am in my dotage
and i no longer have so many words.
the end always comes swiftly, lumbers
among the words, shakes them
like flowers, pulls some up and discards them
in piles, sets others aside
if you leave the roots
they often grow again. insistent,
releasing their fragrance,
other gardens calling you to tend them.
simply perform the task of attending,
setting things in order, arranging
words until everything is full.
and stands still.
or goes to seed. or dies.