The Unfinished Poem

When I was young and in my twenties,
I asked the lady for a poem,
and she gave me a single word of it.
It was a lovely word,
and the poem that it made was beautiful,
but it was not finished.

A year went by,
and I asked again and received
another word, a lovely word,
to add to the beautiful poem,
but though the poem was beautiful,
it still was not finished.

Then later, I dared to ask,
and it was near a year before it came,
another word, a single word, a lovely word,
to add to the beautiful poem,
but though the poem had grown in beauty,
it was not finished.

And so it went with year that followed year,
with a brand new word,
at the end of each new year,
and they were lovely words to add to the beautiful poem,
that grew in length with each passing year,
but still, it was not finished.

I'm eighty now and the poem lacks
but a single word to finish it,
the beautiful poem that has taken
lo these many years to finish.
And I can hardly wait to read the poem,
in all its beauty from start to finish.

But hark! There is a knock! I cannot help but wonder,
Is it the lady at my door with a single word,
a final word with which the beautiful poem to finish,
or is it the reaper who comes with ne'er a word,
who comes with ne'er a single word,
and never waits for any poem to finish?