At the end of never there is music
of the moon
playing in the shadows of rain and storm
in the tongue of sweet summer and winter whisper.
At the end of never light slips
fast as starfire
pure as the pink-petaled rose reflected in still water.
At the end there must be blue
and the spring rising of swallows’ wings
where dragonflied lakes glitter with the soaring sun.
And at the end of never is sleep
dreams perhaps of forest green
and moons slipping fast as starfire
into the cupped pink petals of a rose.