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.
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