The End

It seems I'm coming to the end
of sketchbooks and diaries,
and if I'm to continue
new words must be bought,
new symphonies sought,
new images wrought
on nothing but air,
air, and shapes of wind,
its whispered choruses,
haunting words.
But to write on the wind
one must fly with the wind,
leave all edges behind.
If I'm to continue,
it seems I must
jump.