Here, an ending for the mockingbird’s warble.

Here, an ending for the midnight damp with noise.

Here, an ending for the meadow lit by a baby’s breath.

Here, an ending for the fog at the footnote of my grief.

Here, an ending beginning at the crest of my God’s blue groan.

Here, an ending to the eternity I will have

spent loving every improbable you, an ending

for the unseen grandnephew, an ending for the generations

of pigeons that will outlive our fragile, fallible species.

Here, an ending to the particles reaching our eyes

from some long-dead nebula. Here, an ending to a future

too many billions of years away to properly conceptualize.

But before the ending, the grits to be made Sunday morning.

Before the ending, my father pulling the grease-slicked George Foreman

from its dusty top shelf. Before the ending, the waffle-maker. Nutmeg.

Cinnamon. Jimmy Dean pork sausages on sale at the commissary.

Before the ending, a bathroom to be cleaned before guests arrive.

Here, an ending, but far enough to prepare for. Before that,

my aunt with a skyred song to still the water. Before that,

a forest whispering our dreams to the dirt.