He tosses his life’s work in Tuesday’s trash
and corkscrews down a hole of despair,
alone and unknown, certain companionship
is an illusion.
Love circles bedside, quiet-like,
stirring just enough to be a presence,
relieving pressure, uncramping space
with a sacred spine of focused not-doing,
a special kind of elbow grease.
Prayer is
a mystery. There’s no point in thinking
about it or even using words.
Elbow Grease
March 1, 2024
![](https://www.friendsjournal.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/Wilson_poem_2.jpg)
Photo by Jeremy Yap on Unsplash
March 2024
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