Little Things Mean A Lot

 The world is kind of closing in. Can't get down to the workshop now; it hurts my leg too much to walk there.

And how can I have a metastasis in my femur, if I have to look up how to spell the word? That just seems WRONG, somehow, yeah?

But I'm short on breath, too. There are a couple of new chest tumours, visible through the ribs... I'm giving them names, now. These are Scooby Doo and Scrappy Doo.

But I am doing what I can, some custom woodwork for Barbie. It's not a lot.

But I have to believe it's worthwhile, for the alternative is abject despair.

I think I've learned to be content

in the Dying Biz;

nothing is important,

or every small thing is.

If we're bound for endless void

what does it matter how we go?

But this thought leaves me quite annoyed,

for in my heart and soul I know

that we are placed here for a reason,

then destined for a better place,

and in this, our earthly season

should be a channel of God's grace

in every little thing we do,

for thus are world and we made new.

The Five Minute Friday prompt for this week is 'complete'. Here goes.

Complete does not describe my days

for there's so much I can't do,

but if I look ahead a ways,

I find complete is really true

in that I have done all I could,

and for the rest there is tomorrow,

or perhaps my word-choice should

be that I'll manage if I borrow

a bit of energy and strength

from the God that pulls the strings,

and I know that at this length

my hope is tied to lesser things

like walking and taking next breath

to put in off, again, my death.

And that's five minutes for a sonnet. On a smartphone. SnOoPyDaNnCe!

You might be expecting a link to the old standard, 'Little Things Mean A Lot' here, but I REALLY don't like that song, so here are the Stones, with 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' instead.

Does look like Sylvia got what she wanted, eh?