I carry laundry up the stairs, for what feels like the tenth time this week. It probably was the sixth.
I close the open cupboards. Didn’t I just close them? I can’t remember
This existence is repetitive, I sigh.
I wonder if nature grumbles this way.
I doubt trees groan at the wind, as it rustles their leaves a thousand times over.
Flowers don’t seem to mind bees returning for the same pollen. And maybe the bees don’t mind laboring the same each day.
Maybe daily repetitions aren’t so much a complaint to lodge, but a contentment to behold… to hear harmony created amid the rhythms.