Fruitful toil

It was in the temple,

I was taken,

high in the arid Spring desert

I sat still

as I was instructed

only to listen

until I could hear

a word

about my being.

When it came

I absorbed the sound

like the sun

only trusting

its power

without understanding 

how it works

on my being.

I carried the world

as I moved

on

later with wind and rain

and humid storms

feeling a wrath

on my raw skin

unaffected by its

texture

until I fell

as hitting the solid ground

I felt

Soft

inside, sweeter,

a ripening 

had occured 

when I finally let go.

I now know

this Soft

interior

was not a choice

only 

the way

I had 

become. 

Artwork from  NYPL, (Artist unknown) Postcard series number: 70216, c. 1898 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.