Breathe.

Three days behind — 
no striving; 
the work, spoken, 
the form, set.
Good.
Yet no rest.

Two days unfold — 
color, movement,
the hush of leaves,
the rise of scent.
Good.
Yet unfinished.

One day remains,
not for making,
but for breath. 
Mist lifting,
soil gathering,
wind stirring —
breath of God pressed into dust.

Life. Beauty. Purpose. Meaning.
Very good.

Now,
rest.
Breathe.