Who will carry for me

when I can no longer carry, who will fold
the sleeves of garments back and away
from the wrists that ferry such quantities
of water, passing them down and along
the line? And who will attend the calendar
of hours between one shuttering of the sky
to the next, rouse to brief screenings
of air and light, gather the abundant
moisture of clouds for softness in future days?
Who will pin on the breast of the querulous
moment one fragrant lotus whose meaning
is All, in time, will be well?

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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