Truly work is never done.
The washing of clothes,
the cleansing of dishes,
the repair of cracks,
broken joints,
buying bread,
listening to the happy,
and comforting the broken.
There is no final time
when things are done,
except being born,
and the last thoughts before leaving,
measuring its loneliness
by whispering love,
giving instructions,
absolving the fear
that come with living.
And saying to the air
that kept its place,
thank you friend,
for your silence.
Thank you for allowing me
my migratory ways,
my thoughts going off in lightning,
falling into wells,
and letting me collect my stones.
The heavy ones
for topiary in my garden.
Little statues of stones balancing,
strong and fragile.
And pictures of their fossils,
giving me a faith.
If life goes on this long,
how beautiful its prayers,
how brave its striving,
a message for the rain
running off their faces.
Keep faith with work,
and things to be done,
making life easier for others,
going to sleep with a weary
but satisfied feeling.
Out of forever I was
a blithe set of wings,
a spirit
learning how to fly!