A Vegetative State - Dec 16 2024

 

A Vegetative State

Dec 16 2024



I feel like dormant soil

under the snow,

at rest   …

lying fallow   …

husbanding my strength.

A vegetative state

some puritanical soul

  —  who fervently believes

in the nobility of labour,

work as redemption,

and productivity

as the holy grail of life  —

would condemn as sloth

sinful

ungodly.

But why not,

when life is short

winter long

the weather frightful?

It’s warm down here,

or at least warmish;

heat

from the centre of the earth

percolating upward,

the slow burn

of decomposing matter,

and layers of snow

a weighted blanket

tucking me in.

I eat, sleep, ponder.

The dogs, at first, are restless

but soon comply;

the wisdom of the body,

and animals

whom evolution has taught

to conserve and restore,

lie low

in a treacherous world.

Down here with me,

where fungi thrive,

microorganisms multiply,

and roots

having culled themselves

lie deep in winter torpor.

Down here with me,

settling nicely in.

And down here with me,

pleasantly idle

agreeably adrift.

Lulled by the darkness,

swaddled

in fertile earth,

and absolved, as best I’m able

of the harsh judgement

I too often inflict on myself.

A truly miserable winter day: leaden skies, grey snow, a tick above freezing; and a persistent drizzle of ice cold rain.

So I gave myself permission to over-sleep, over-eat, and over-read (how nice to be retired!) And now, having written my second poem, it’s as if productivity — that is, if poetry even counts (because it’s mostly useless, and because it’s much more indulgence than penance) — could absolve me of my sloth.

I also feel guilty about neglecting the dogs. But then, they naturally default to sleep (even the puppy!): a teachable moment for human beings who have been indoctrinated by puritanical sayings such as “idle hands are the devil’s playthings”.