There are those who find comfort
in repetition. And then there are those
like me, who find no comfort in it
but go on anyway, trial and error
and error and error over and over
until my fingers turn to slivers
of meat and bone. Somewhere a slingshot
held taut but targetless, a stone
resigned to aimlessness, homing in
on something not quite nameable.
Perhaps this is what labor means,
the common, endless turning,
the emulation of seasons, a tree
bearing fruit and a fruit falling to earth
and rotting, then becoming a tree again.
The world does not get tired
even when it should,
and there is little comfort in knowing
that this is the way it’s always been,
this is the way it’s supposed to be,
this is the way it’s supposed to be.
Mikael de Lara Co
(via abo sa dila)