Finished

It’s done now.

The last line set down,
the pen left where it fell.
No one to mark it.

The room looks the same.
Paper on the table,
light going out of the day
in the usual way.

I sit a while.

There was a weight to it,
I see that now more clearly
with it gone.
Something carried
without naming it.

Years, perhaps.
Or just the habit
of returning to it
again and again.

I thought it might end differently.
Some lift, some sign.

Instead,
a loosening.

The shoulders drop.
Breath comes back
without being asked.

Outside, nothing has changed.
The same road,
the same evening
settling in.

Still, I feel it.

Not pride.
Something quieter.

As if a field
long worked over
has been left at last,
the ground holding
what it was given.

I get up,
move through the room,
touch the back of a chair,
as if to be sure of it.

It is enough.

For now,
it is enough.