Breathe.

Three days behind with no striving.
The work has been spoken.
The form has been set.
It is good.
Yet no rest.

Two more days unfold. 
Color and movement,
the hush of leaves,
the rise of fragrance.
It is good.
Yet unfinished.

One day remains,
not for making, but for breathing. 
Mist lifts, soil gathers, and wind stirs.
The breath of God is pressed into dust.

There is life and beauty.
Purpose and meaning.
It is all very good.

Now, rest.
Breathe.