Nothing is happening and everything is happening. There is no change day to day, month to month, yet in a year all will be different. Let the earth rest then, and recover itself, overtaken by toil, sucked dry like a weary teat hanging, flesh needing to nestle into itself. No infant grain this year to shoot up hurriedly as though reaching the sky were their aim, NASA watching closely. No seedlings shrinking the ever-depleting store of nutrients. Time to lay low, see the clouds float by on the inside of reddened eyelids. Waiting, learning the hard art of Sabbath, remembering how to breathe.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com