Longing for rest, to cease from busyness. I want to curl up on a cushion, warm shafts of light through the window holding my face in their hands: gentle, soft, undemanding.
Longing for the kind of rest that soothes body and soul. Longing for the pastures green rest, the trickling stream rest, the lazy summer evenings in the long grass, chilled glass with ice, giggling with the girls rest.
Longing for the no more niggling aches and pains rest. Longing for the soft, relaxed shoulder rest, the freely moving arms rest, the non-achy hip, non-creaky knee, flexible, trippity feet rest.
The kitchen doesn’t need a clean rest, the sinks already shine and gleam rest, not a hair on the carpet, no washing in the basket, not a job needs doing so don’t even ask it rest.
I choose to stop. Rest. Don’t touch the sink. Rest. Curl up on the cushion. Rest. Don’t read the book. Rest.