A Poem Is Never Finished!

I have a bio of Auden.
I've read it several times.
Pen in hand, always underlining.

Read it enough, and the whole book'll soon be underlined.
His life means something to me.
"A poem is never finished," he said.

I like that.
Stuff is never finished.
Neither is life.

Sure, someone dies.
And that's that.
But life is never finished.

I'll die, too.
And so will you.
And so will our children.

And grandchildren, too.
Death is that finalizer.
It smiles with its power.

But the earth goes on.
And will likely go on for some time to come.
And so will the universe.

Expanding limits.
Stars exploding.
Protons and buffoons.

Life is never finished.
Life is movement.
Reaching.

For those who believe in eternal life.
Well, that's the on-going stuff, isn't it?
The stuff that's never finished.

I've thought, If there is an eternity.
It's movement ... like the Book of Revelation.
A bustling city, noisy; the lights never turned off.

In Christ, for sure.
Who says, "Follow me!"
To places yet unknown.

The inexhaustible heart of God.
If God had a beginning, it was the moment when
God realized there could be love.

Anyway, I like Auden.
His hold on faith.
Or faith's hold on him.

His struggles with his own flesh.
His being, identity, his love.
His dreams and desires.

No wonder a poem is never finished.