Somewhere just within my sight
there is still one gleam

(covered in old dirt with
just a smidgen of the expected grime)

that tells me this:
my Work is not done; that pushing on it

(brushing it free or maybe
touching it with my tongue gingerly

so as not to taste
the imagined poison it might hold)

will yield one tiny fruit at full shine;
perhaps more, perhaps more grown,

perhaps a whole once-unseen star’s worth
of fiery growth; and that I will

be rejuvenated along with them, or rather
everyone will throng to it —

and I will
go along

with everyone else, secretly knowing
that this Work was not mine —

that it was just given to me to hold
and cradle in my shrunken arms

for as long as I have left here
in this sphere, this small world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T