May 28, 1998 (I was 53)
Fatigue ought to be a reward,
a gift
a welcoming offer of respite
when productive work is done.
It ought to be a surrender
soft as diminishing light
when the sun settles on the horizon,
acceptance of accomplishment
and promise of replenishment,
ache of muscles worked
toward more fine-tuned conditioning.
It ought to possess the mind
the way an artful poem settles
its sound and rhythm into wisdom.
It must then be a different weariness
I fight against to prolong the day,
unearned and unaccomplished
to feel so hollow and smell so dank;
my pores function differently.
I never felt this greasy
nor smelled so sulfurous.
If heaven is sought within
so must hell exude from same;
if I ask salvation
I ask in my own name.
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