Routine

My beloved routine — the familiar gloss of working days. The very same old scene, and yet it's different in a hundred ways. The dim light from the tiny room, the walls with their worn-out sides. A hut on chicken legs — for now that's quite enough. My favorite chair remembers well the pressure of a firm behind. Routine melts laziness like butter till I fall face-down on the pillow. Daily life eats on without a break, breathing — quicker up on top. Little thoughts fly off like feathers, clearing husks from the grain. Routine is like a farmer, skillfully raising a harvest. It whispers softly: "Hey, you craftsman, don't belittle your own work." Routine — I'll surround it with care, give it honor, give it praise. Though your swamp drags me back again — once I've rested, I love it once more.