Unfinished

 

 The promise is not to be

Perfect, but to grow until

Complete; the goal is to rise,

A trembling and unopened

Bud upon a trembling stem,

Blossoming beyond dark skies.

 

The command is not to be

Flawless, but to bleed until

The wound’s bled out and swab-swirled

And cauterized and clean-healed

And all fresh-skinned and covered

Over in the other world.

 

The problem is not to be

Good or better, but to be

Forgiven, pardoned, set free,

Liberated from the grim,

Gray, daunting, paralyzing

Struggle with necessity.

 

The good work that was begun

Goes on day by day by day

And stops not until the end,

When, stepping through the portal

And pushing the veil aside,

We meet our eternal Friend.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *