The counter never fails to need another swipe of the sponge. The laundry -
like Sisyphus - piles up the moment I fold the last clean shirt. The plants still
want watering, despite the hose that sated them two days ago. The boys plea,
once more, it's not their turn. I wonder, some days, when the channel
will change, when the work will finish for good. And yet, last night's dishes
are behind us, and the crumbs that dot the sink are from the bread
I sliced this morning, when I woke with a fresh supply of hours and plans and wishes
for the day. I filled my cup. I wrote a poem. I made the bed.
A cadence blooms inside the clean-up. The track finds traction with each spin.
The path insists on finding us, again and again and again.