It's raining, which we need, but I don't-
wrote last night while trying to settle myself into a state of peace
performed without guile,
sans excessive history, spill
into meditation, medication
for the sin-sick soul, a balm,
not to be mistaken for a cure;
a tsouris- that which troubles.
Dishes, mail, errands, trash,
bedclothes, linens; reinforce,
drive the deeds as they come,
the days tumble unrecorded.
The art of doing simple,
the mastery in not losing
countless hours to broken sleep,
worry of what's to come, as
ocean turned to mountain range-
we are vast, hard to navigate,
ways set before our being, we are
lead to tasks, obligations, daily.