Most of what I do
goes on and on
and on
and
on
The search for right work
the path to self-knowledge
the cultivation of compassion
On and on
into motherfucking
infinity
and will do so
until the clock is stopped
on my heart
or my brain,
whichever comes first.
So some of what I do
must be carved
into finite bits:
the dishes
the dinner
the laundry
the bills
I will do them again,
of course.
Nothing is finite
from far enough back
but more an illusion
I conjure
to keep from going mad
with the bigness of it all
But for now
I will pretend
that it is just this sink full of dishes
this pot of soup
these two loads
this one bill
and cross them off my list,
one
by
one
in mental red pen.
Maybe a thing done well
mostly, a thing done, period.
One needs the closure
when one trucks in ellipses...
xxx
c
Image by vmiramontes via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.