There’s a sacred solace
found in simple, mundane tasks:
A comfort that extends beyond
the bounds of each small act.
When days loom long and pressures throng
and strength becomes fatigue,
sacred solace enters in
with work I can complete.
The counter? Scrubbed. The dog? Well-loved.
The several dishes? Clean.
I may not mend life’s larger ills,
but I can tend these things.
And when they’re done, I take my cup
of coffee, tea, or pain,
and sit with it and make the most
of what I can’t explain.
I find the work of finishing
small things can make a way
for larger cares to shrink; and then
I face them, unafraid.
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