Bearable
An Ekphrastic Sonnet
You have no time to calculate the weight
Numbers are soft and fragile as petals
Chuckle when they tell you to meditate
Listen to the music of cheap metals
As they chatter with spices and small arms
In the sorry satchels on your shoulders
Remember wind combing the wheat on farms
Where your quiet strength amazed beholders
The present loves to parody the past
Only one task remains: to move the load
To work, so long as slavish bones will last
To hope to be the subject of an ode
To those who plod along without protest
Hoof printing absurd deserts, winning rest
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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