No Cumber

Who watches us

 

through the Great

Silence just beyond

 

th’eternal vesperal

light. When tired souls

lean ever into the closing

of the day with no

 

hunch about what

that day has meant

or guess toward

the meaning of

the morrow. It is

 

not I - the weary

me that has no stake

or claim to make

in giving life. It is

 

instead the I that

awakens as we lessen

tight our holding grip

on all ruin we believe

ourselves to rule.

 

The One who weaves

destiny and breath

is glad when we ourselves

put ourselves to rest,

bedding down to let

the world align itself anew

 

without so much as a

wit of our cleverness

to run it all aground. That

One rejoices in our

fading of to sleep, perchance

to dream and imagine

that we have nothing to

rule, or grumble at, no

 

cumber to build into

a mess.