Transformative labors.

By afternoon the morning's rain and power outage are a poem, furled and furling on the table's corner while the article's sentences become paragraphs become arguments fleshing out and finishing. The endings--of each, of all--are always what's most difficult: a clean break is too simple, too done, doesn't follow through on the promise that seemed to be there, or is there, or was. In the end, we are at our beginnings again, feeling for the match, deciding whether growth has happened in the right direction, whether we can keep what came next. In the foggy night a detail--in this case, a refrigerator--wants to stay where it started, bloom where it was planted, and yet the place where it would hold no longer seems to want it. And who wants a blooming refrigerator? Or does it evoke its keep after all? The drafts pile up and up and up in a file; I am abandoning them for my bed.