Farewell

The plume, held in ancient hands,

Gracefully strokes across the sepia leaf.

It dips, one last time for ink, and ends

The final sentence. This book is now complete.

The period that ends the final line

Is no different than the rest throughout the book:

But somehow it speaks volumes,

More words than all the other lines hold.

Done. Good. Fulfilled. Complete.

He places the plume lightly on the table,

Closes the book He has written.

The gold inscription on the cover glimmers

In the candlelight.

He smiles and sets the book gently aside.

The story is not done, however –

For he has much more writing yet to do,

Many other books that are not done.

He looks back at the book,

Thinks of the end he had written

And smiles,

Knowing what He would write next.

Note from the author:

This is a poem I wrote back in the eleventh grade. The boarding school where I had grown up was closing, and I was going to be moving away from Bolivia. In the original, the name of the school, "Tambo," was written on the cover of the book. I have removed it from this version in the hope that it can apply to your endings, and your new beginnings.