Undone

And so, when the hermit,
All content in her surroundings,
Stands back from her work,
And tells herself
I can never want for anything.
So happy am I,
In my perfectly appointed
Little home, what happens?

If she does not immediately
Consider seven things
Which she cannot live without,
There will come a knocking at the door,
And in will walk
The Ruiners,
Who will destroy the home
She has carefully set for herself.

And if they can be kept at bay
Well, being a hermit
Does not always eliminate
The pangs of loneliness,
Only reduces their effect.
So might she, in a weak moment,
Invite into her perfect home
A lover or a friend.

And if she withstands
Desire in all of its forms,
And sabotage from all its sources,
Is she still left unprotected
From withering storms,
The dreaded flood,
The wind funnel, earthquake,
And hundred forms of terror.

In short, the work of being content
Can never quite be finished.
Even accepting as fate,
Being alone and having little.
For the perfect place,
To pass a life without worry,
Is not found
In any perfect design.

To design a life without worry,
Is folly from the beginning/
No matter how close you get
To your perfect set-up,
You will find
The work can never be complete.
It is so much easier to make undone,
Than to be content with your surroundings.

So while I would never suggest
Completely giving up,
You must remember as you look around
That if it were perfect it would be sterile.
Perhaps it would be too perfect,
And it would never be enjoyed,
Not even by you.