The Truth of it All
I spend all day moving meaningless
Masses of dead wood
From one pile to another.
When I do so I am told
To make the second pile
Neater than the first-
As if doing so will somehow
Make the wood easier to move
Once it’s ready for the third pile,
And then again later
For the burn pile.
It’s nothing but tedious busy work,
It has to be.
What other reason could there be
For all this moving about
From pile to pile?
The wood won’t burn any better
After it’s traveled and seen the world
…will it?
No, it will burn just the same
Coming from the first pile
As it would from the third or fourth.
So then why the waste of time?
There has to be some other way,
Something more direct,
More efficient.
But life doesn’t seem to be
Direct or efficient
Does it?
No, life is full of seemingly
Meaningless
Movements and steps.
The fire can’t be lit
Until the wood has been
Stacked.
Moved.
Restacked.
And moved again.
Nearly a dozen times.
The truth of it all though,
Is that despite all the frustration,
Despite all the tedious back-and-forths,
Once we’re cuddled together by that fire
We won’t remember the struggle
We went through to get there-
It won’t even cross our minds.
All we’ll notice
Is the joy that fire brings us
As we bathe in the warmth
That our work has brought us.
Masses of dead wood
From one pile to another.
When I do so I am told
To make the second pile
Neater than the first-
As if doing so will somehow
Make the wood easier to move
Once it’s ready for the third pile,
And then again later
For the burn pile.
It’s nothing but tedious busy work,
It has to be.
What other reason could there be
For all this moving about
From pile to pile?
The wood won’t burn any better
After it’s traveled and seen the world
…will it?
No, it will burn just the same
Coming from the first pile
As it would from the third or fourth.
So then why the waste of time?
There has to be some other way,
Something more direct,
More efficient.
But life doesn’t seem to be
Direct or efficient
Does it?
No, life is full of seemingly
Meaningless
Movements and steps.
The fire can’t be lit
Until the wood has been
Stacked.
Moved.
Restacked.
And moved again.
Nearly a dozen times.
The truth of it all though,
Is that despite all the frustration,
Despite all the tedious back-and-forths,
Once we’re cuddled together by that fire
We won’t remember the struggle
We went through to get there-
It won’t even cross our minds.
All we’ll notice
Is the joy that fire brings us
As we bathe in the warmth
That our work has brought us.