And where does a story end,
and another one begin?
And what of those moments,
lounging on a street corner
watching the traffic go by?
Aren't they part
of a story, too?
The threads of the tapestry
weave a single pattern, yet
we hunger for a discreet
beginning and end, not God's
Coltrane-like music of being
everyone everywhere
at once and for all time,
a story following a thread,
'a piece of string' like de Maupassant's,
a beginning, middle and end,
a glimpse, something
for those of us walking
a path on earth and preparing
to take a next step,
maybe lifting our heads
to some vista far beyond
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stories-3/
