My Own Sabbath

Sore from yesterday's exertions, drained of,
On the one hand, any urge to take on other
Tasks, and, on the other, tasks to do,
I sit. I smell the morning air, the warming
Grass, the drying earth, the dampness
Of the air itself, and contemplate a day
Of...nothing. Legends hold that even gods
Must rest at times, and, though I lack
The urges and capacities of those the legends
Venerate, I, too, have to trade my tools,
Now and then, for shady places. I'm worn
Out, and, anyway, I feel I've done enough



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 47 times
Written on 2021-06-09 at 15:36

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