toil

blinded by the ease of finding purpose in our task, we knew not what it was to give and see no connection to sustaining beauty, the vibrancy of giving our life for life.

having left the garden kissed by the terrestrial curse, mechanically we cog in this elaborate production - to imagine, there was a time when it was unknown to feel pointless, superfluous, obligatory, or accidental.

never was there the consequence of lifting our aching joints before a blistering sun, to watch our precious seed scatter in the wind, wondering, questioning... which of these will fight its way into the soil, endure the darkness, to reappear alive?

the wasted seed, those moments never harvested, will die and without the slightest sound, bow and slip into forgetfulness. it is tragic that this is the way of things under the sun, to accept that so much life is given to the ground, and time, as the judge, chooses which returns.