Motive

I sit back in the chair and pull the glasses from my face. The winter light is cooling. Something in it tells of what is coming in the year ahead, a reminder that entropy is our ultimate destiny. Futile, the words and deeds of the living, against Nature. Pointless, the work of the pollinators. Useless, the growth of the oaks. Vain, the art.

Yet, we take up the work, the sap, the brush, the pen, the bow. Still, as voices whisper, “not good enough”, we try.