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.