even better

even better than the writing is the not writing

even better than the rooms are the hallways

even better than the fingers are the missing rings

even better than the cookies

are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet

how will I know, she wondered,

and her backache said, just start

but where should I start, she said,

and her sore feet said, right here

and when do I stop, she asked

but there wasn’t a good answer

even harder than the aches are the wants

even harder than the fists are the open hands

even harder than the waiting is the being

even harder than the trees

are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers

I walked over a bridge, she said

I opened a letter, and I learned something new

I closed a book, and I missed so much

I sat on a bench, and I laughed

even older than the sense is the nonsense

even older than the aches are the hollow rooms

even older than this poem is the waiting

even older than the end

is the constantly shifting beginning