LXIV: The Seven Days of June: vii:

Farewell

This journal’s nearly done, O dearest J,

with but a couple empty pages left.

What is it that you’d want them both to say?

What weight of soul would you their lines now heft?

I hate these things—the ending of a book.

The loss of space, the waning of a wood.

I hated, too, the last look that I took

of you and yours. I’d change it if I could.

Then let these pages never know such woe.

Let these stay open, inkless, blank, and free.

Free to know whatever they will know.

Free to be whatever they will be.

Dear J, I hope that you are doing well.

You’ve many songs and stories left to tell.