Die-Cut - edit

[milo]

Die-Cut


Lives are made of jigsaw pieces–
fresh events, late recollections–
chronicles of things that happened,
schemes and dreams that never did.

As life’s moments fall and scatter,
future gray turns present-colored
flashing opportunities to fathom
where each fits within one’s past.

Rarely, there’s a straight-cut border
or a corner marking limits;
otherwise it joins a slack-pile
judged by color, image, kind– 

yet the long-sought part may turn out
not to be a future fortune
but a person once discarded,
for her color or his shape.

In the end some puzzle-pilgrims
know beforehand what their final
panorama will portray:
they saw the box-top, read the Book.

Others will evade a closing
comprehension of the image
they’ve assembled – yet all finish
for no life ends incomplete.

original version;

Life is made of puzzle pieces–
some events, new thoughts about them,
memories of things that happened,
schemes and dreams that never did.

As each die-cut shape flips over,
future gray to brilliant present,
there’s a moment to consider
where to place it in the past.

Sometimes it’s a straight-edged border
or a corner setting limits;
mostly it will join a pile, once
judged by color, image, kind.

Then, with many upward-facing,
understanding, meaning, slowly
forms but gaps remain, demanding
search among bits pushed aside.

Often missing pieces turn out
to be, not still face-down, waiting,
but a person met, discarded,
for her color or his shape.

In the end, some puzzle-solvers
know beforehand what their final
panorama will portray: they
saw the box-top, read the Book.

Others will delay that closing
recognition of the picture
they’ve assembled, but it finds them
for no life ends incomplete.

I think there may be an idea trying to get out here, but this version seems clunky and unsatisfactory.  Advice would be appreciated.

I think the title "Die-Cut" is interesting enough but loses all strength when it is explained and then when the explanation ends up being - lives are like jig saw puzzles.  I honestly don't know if another human has ever written a poem saying the exact same thing but it feels easy - too easy - to the point I would be willing to bet my last farthing thre are at least a thousand.  So what is the solution?  Give up and move on?  Has humanity produced the last life is like a jig saw poem ever?  No, it just starts out a bit on the nose and then continues to be on the nose throughout.  The narrator is not living in their world so much as explaining a metaphor to the reader over and over.  It might be more interesting for the narrator to just describe the various situations of life being jig-saw-esque with the title and let the reader determine whether it is true or not.

Thanks for posting