is another kind of labor altogether
against the eddies and rumination
of a mind coasting to rest,
Applying patience against the stillborn
womb of hours.
The earth has her own breath;
She rolls a steady rhythm
fall and ascension
while the body twists away and struggles
not to enter
but Grace or Karma,
Fate wearing provincial face, intervenes
to run the furnace hot and clean
till oxidation finds no further hold
Only then does she begin her work:
Now that same body curls,
a tender fiddlehead possessing more
exhaustion than serenity.
It is enough. Descent shall now correct
the road, make folded,
lovely, and imperfect what was
worn, narrow and straight.