A chore.
I get through each day,
nothing less
nothing more.
And I wake just to tackle
what each sun has in store.
My glass isn't empty,
but I'll wait for the pour.
A life overflowing
with oil and grace:
skipping through time,
not this snail's trudging pace,
A full day of smiles affixed to my face,
the feeling that home,
it just might be this place.