Sunday night is for catching up on work
before the morning and the next work comes.
That way, when Monday’s here, I will not shirk
the new day’s docket while my mind humdrums.
And if, on Monday, I can carry on,
then Tuesday’s classes are as easy, too.
And then on Wednesday I’m halfway done,
and Thursday is as good as nearly through.
Friday, of course, I slough the bag I’ve lugged—
That’s what Sunday is for: to pick the slack.
But likely, when I do, I will have shrugged
the pressure, and will once again go back.
So Saturday is truly mine; and yet,
without the stress, I might more headway get.
~~~
And everybody smelled the roses, and
they could not see them. Or it was reversed—
they saw the roses very brightly, and
their noses never satisfied their thirst.
That was how it was for everyone
I ever knew. They saw and could not know,
or knew and never saw what they had done
as those who saw, but to it could not go.
And many stood at windows locked indoors,
and many stood outside with blindfolds on.
The blind could know well what the meadow stores
while those stored inside wept for what they longed.
That is what it means to be man, I find.
We know only that what others have pined.