Empty Day

Passing through.
Random minutes stagger by.
Seconds thumping across my chest.

Wasted daylight on my porch,
Could have grown a leaf or weed,
Instead has shed its hope upon my breath.

Yet there is another way,
To view, to see, to think.
To unlatch my heart, to detach my mind.

Perhaps this is what rest means.
Perhaps this is how I prepare my work life.
Perhaps this is why I love how my life works.