Work

One knows the

fragrant page of an

old book, the reliable creak in the

wooden floor, the wobbly

traverse of a cobblestone street,

the flow off the edge of an

eavestrough.

One can see into a

dusty sunbeam, the

waddle of the train, the bleat of

the lamb, a groan in the mast,

the lightening crackling

loose of clouds.

These are the

prayers of elements, broken

for you. So, think not to make

religion of work, nor glory of

work. We are of the earth!

Why would you

fiddle with fancy as

friends gather to tend the

garden, our children,

or the near horizon? Place

your hand to the plow, eyes

straight. The sky will

mind itself.