Writing an unfinished poem.

My friend and book club colleague Janice Terry pointed out to me that poems are never "finished." We just abandon them for a while with a view to returning to the poem when we feel the inspiration. So, with Janice's words still on my mind, here's a "finished" poem.

        

I've come to help you, she said,

The wind is strong and it might

Blow you over. I don't want you to fall.

Two others called out:

First: Man, she's taking care of you;

Then: You're one lucky guy today.

She held out her elbow for

Him to take. They left

The building, headed for his car.

Watch your step, this wind

Is fierce. He tightened his hold

On her arm. Thanks, he said.

The southern sky was robin's egg blue;

Black clouds were approaching from the north.

In between, weather-making wind was buffeting.

Here we are, she said, opening his door.

He slid safely into the driver's seat,

Kissing his forehead, she patted his shoulder.

Made it! he shouted ceremoniously.

We usually do, she smiled.

He inserted the key into the ignition.