Muscles ache from working hand to shovel to rake to trowel and I remember that I am dust. That my days number the way he counts them on my head, from beginning to end. Birds build nests, squirrels bury acorns, trees sprawl green leafy canopy in summer’s sun to fulfill created purpose. So what keeps me from fulfilling mine. Are you fulfilling yours?
Do birds bury acorns, squirrels lay eggs?
May we live, you and I, wisdom-full in the counting of days. Let’s satifsy our spot in the world as written wet ink in the book of life. He’s turned the page to start the next chapter. So what are we waiting for?