Rest

With many a pattered strum and thrum,
The silent man spoke with his well worn drum.
Limber fingers did tap, smooth nails did scrape.
Into me the percussive language did drape.

Faster and faster, the man worked his art.
Pushing and driving, his drum ruled my heart.
Lost was the sense of matter and sound,
To the bone shaking rhythm, I’d been tightly bound.

Just when I thought I could take no more,
Within me, the rhythm, had opened a door.
Into me flowed a knowledge so deep and so wise,
It illumined my soul and opened my eyes.

His drum then receded, but my heart did remain.
With every heartbeat, it told nature’s refrain.
That snippet of wisdom, now homed in my chest?
“There is Work in the toil, there is Work in the rest.”

(This post inspired by and written for Sunday Scribblings #306: “Rest“.)