Don't close the book just yet

"Don't close the book on me yet ... I am a story untold," or so saith whomever is rattling the cage, beating the old metal as if it were the ancient of days.

Don't close the book on me, this story unfolding like a scroll,  because I am a story told in present tense. 

Don't close the book on me unread because I am a story whose future is like a gift of candy. It is said I strive for the next moment like a creature whose best still lumbers behind him, a creature whose September mornings are as good as it's moon-lit Spring evenings. I long to be touched and to touch, skin on skin.

Don't close the book on me because the future has come roaring down time's highway and joined with uncertain presents and mysterious pasts. The red and blue fabric is dyed bold, cotton cloth screaming to readers, asking what has happened in bold question marks. 

The pages go on and on and on, rolling away from the binder as if they were of a like mind. 

Pages on pages. Lives on lives. Some scribbled on in pencil  Some typed on in formal wear. That's our abundant living, us writers. Oh, the simplified motivation, being pushed to grab hold of an idea, maintain contact on a thought, being pulled along as if a muddy river had, and if you didn't know better, you would swear there is rhyme and reason behind the pages.

Yeah, don't close the book just yet, for love is never done until it is done.

Don't get me wrong. Put your feet into the mix of sand and water. The cold water hits your dirty feet, and you feel it down to the bone. You really do. You've walked on the beaches, and like spring rain, it is a reminder of times past. The only thing we're sure of is the story still is unfolding. Our doctor is in, his diagnosis not so much.                                               

Our journey, together, weaves through the valleys of the unknown like the vanilla bean being crushed for our pleasure. Ever been there? Ever seen that? Yeah, that's a big deal. Crush that sweet bean's substance into a brown pulp, onto the kitchen counter, push it off the counter with a butter knife, roll it onto the knife, letting the knife serve as distribution system. We are the future. We are a creature whose best lies ahead. 

We are. We are, bold and persuasive.

Our journey is one that is without question beautiful and alive. We crawl out of the surf and on to the cove. Our sandy shores are covered with the distant tunes of lost love. Our grief is short. Our bereavement miniscule.

That is the best of all things.