I woke today in the fear of my ancestors,
Heavy with the weight of what I have and have not done.
Meanwhile the garden spider on her loom
Greets the infant morning with filaments of silk,
And acting on some urge that seems to me like joy
She makes a home more lovely than the last.
Oh willing Sisyphus, unmindful of the past, and free,
Unburden me by the burden you carry,
And with your gentle load upon my back
I shall be glad.

8.30.22