Plumbing the depths,
ploughing the fields,
riding the wave and
burning
the midnight
oil.

There's a simple joy in
kicking off your socks
after a long day,
in coming back home
after losing your way and
following feet first with
feet
up.

To laugh over hot tea.

I've closed the cover on bedlam
and met simplicity at
the
door.

And there is a lot more art in this
than every glass that I pressed
to my lips let
the record
reflect that I miss them but
I'll probably never be back there
again.

I don't know if I'll ever
see another yellowed day-after,
lying about and
tracing every scar.
Each bruise reading like an epic
and
every freckle, a
fable.

We are all simply energies,
dust in differing excitation,
being given moments in
exchange
for a higher
call.

So as dutiful conduits
we take up the plough
and revel in each pinprick
between the beginning and
now.