Easier these latter years to be content
with everyday chores, knowing
the mind’s once distracting visions
come to naught at best, heartache more;
that flailing away at ourselves redeems not
the future, serving only to entrench
even deeper the recalcitrant self.
All life’s conflicts are resolved here –
in the sparrow’s wing, the hand on the plow,
the hammer of the bell, the eternally shifting now.
Consuming a simple breakfast,
strolling the April garden, a tune
sung in the quiet dusk – a cul-de-sac,
not a crossroads of judgments, decisions;
regrets and desires, realized or thwarted.
No running out of time here.
Thoroughly encountering the mundane,
the mundane becomes unworldly,
extraordinary, no sacrifice –
enough, enough, more than enough.
O child of God, whatsoever thy hand findeth to do,
rest assured, it has just left the fingertips of God.