The poet ceases. Something has changed. He has reached his goal but somehow remains undone. His soul has received as nourishment the odes he writes, yet he cannot rest. Or might it be possible that rest has now become enduring and no change appears to mind? Either way, he has been instructed to stop. Something has been completed even if not him. He counts the manuscripts upon the shelf. They are nine in number and the digit feels complete. The nine play host to more than one thousand of the odes, each and every one a blessing to be discovered and savored. The nine are now prepared and ready to be given at spirit's insistence. The poet must consider the musings done for now. He must move on to the next thing, to whatever his Guide deems essential. But what shall he call this ninth child? Is it an ending or merely a stopover, a brief respite from the work? The poet knows not but he wishes to know. He needs to comprehend this final step in this progression he has been subsumed by for the last two years. Yet he receives no reply, no answer, no direction except the simplicity of a title. Call it The Final Step, he is told; nothing more. It will conclude what must be never concluded for want of a better vision. But what does it say to me now that I must move on, he queries? It says nothing more than this:Forgiveness is my questClarity, my goalPeace to daily attend meLove to make me whole
