It is Sunday. Out the window, everything is dressed in birthday colors as if I should celebrate. As if the shell were about to crack and the new skin revealed. A cheer goes up among the gathered, the onlookers. Words small and dry and cornered as confetti.

My heart is wrapped in an old cloth and pushed to the back of an otherwise empty cupboard. All the colors, shades of dust. That slanting.

Inhabit, if you dare, the crossroads of: the Work means nothing. That backwater. Nothing to pull you on.

Will you go wordless? Will you let the walls and archways of your efforts fall to ruin? Will you inhabit the golden grace of surrender? 

Will you stand here, in this very moment, with nothing to show, and be glad?