Time moves
in its quiet circles,

and I move within it—

a small figure
in the workshop of days,

one pair of aging hands
among the countless hands
that have built this world.

Absent labor,
I fade away.

Not yet into death,

but into something
almost as quiet—

a thinning of being,

a soft disappearance
at the edges of myself,

where purpose once held me
like a nail driven deep
into living wood.

Give me work.

Not command.

Not punishment.

But visitation.

Let the unfinished thing
come to my door.

Let the stubborn screw
wait for me.

Let the rusted hinge
remember its long resistance.

Let the old pipe
carry the memory
of another century.

Let the broken thing
ask quietly:

Will you try again?

These are my liturgies.

This turning of the hand.

This bending of the body.

This searching for the right tool.

This resistance
of matter against desire.

Here—

in the small battlefield
between what I intend
and what actually happens—

I discover
the faint pulse
of resurrection.

For effort
is a kind of prayer.

And stress—

that little animal
pacing inside the chest—

is sometimes
the body’s way of saying:

You are still here.

Still breathing.

Still struggling.

Still becoming.

Still unfinished.

Without resistance
the muscle of the spirit weakens.

Without emotion
the moral weight of life
grows thin.

Without something
to push against,

even death
becomes too smooth,

too easy,

too near.

But jubilant living
is not a life without struggle.

It is a life
that discovers resurrection
inside the struggle.

The dead places rise again.

Not only in the graveyard
of Scripture,

not only where the stone
is rolled away,

but here—

in the workshop,

in the garden,

in the kitchen,

in the quiet room
where tired hands
begin again
what yesterday
could not finish.

Resurrection—

a word for the impossible
becoming ordinary.

A seed breaking the earth.

A broken chair repaired.

A poem finding its final line.

A weary man
standing up once more
after whispering:

I cannot.

And then—

after one long breath—

Perhaps I can.

At three in the morning,

the house is a held breath.

The world has withdrawn
into darkness.

The clock glows
like a small moon
on the wall.

And suddenly—

a thought enters.

A butterfly
without knocking.

It lands
upon the sleeping mind.

Yesterday’s unfinished work
stands quietly
in the doorway.

It doesn’t accuse me.

It waits.

So I follow its tracks—

one step,

then another,

then another—

into the narrow corridor
between thought and action.

Anxiety arrives first,

as it always does.

My old companion.

It knows my name.

It knows every possible failure
before I have lifted a tool.

But I do not fight it.

Come, anxiety.

Stand beside me.

Watch.

You may stay.

But you will not lead.

I reach for the handle.

The heart quickens.

I want to begin quickly.

I want to finish quickly.

I want the sweet little sound
of accomplishment—

that private bell
inside the human heart
that says:

Done.

But the world
does not surrender so easily.

Obstacles appear
from hidden corners,

like rusted screws
buried in darkness,

like old pipes
that have kept their secrets
for decades,

like yesterday itself
reaching into today
and saying:

Not yet.

I turn.

I pull.

I loosen.

I tighten.

I stop.

I breathe.

I try again.

Five hours.

Five long hours
of wrestling
with the stubbornness
of things.

And finally—

one toilet replaced.

One.

Only one.

And yet—

how large
that one becomes.

A sigh escapes me.

Not the sigh of defeat.

The sigh of relief.

The quiet breath
of a man
who has moved
one small stone
from the road.

One toilet saved.

One problem removed.

One less journey
to the store.

One less interruption
in the night.

One small corner
of the world
made whole.

One-third success.

Enough.

Yes—

enough for today.

Two remain.

Tomorrow
will have its own hands.

Tomorrow
will receive
tomorrow’s work.

Tonight—

I will rest.

The old things
were difficult.

Unpredictable.

Stubborn.

They carried
their own histories,

their rust,

their hidden fractures,

their secrets
inside walls
I could not see.

They had lived
before me.

They had endured
before me.

Perhaps they were teaching me
the oldest lesson
of all:

Do not force everything.

So I listened.

I listened for the susurrus—

the whisper
of wind through leaves,

that ancient sound
that never explains itself
and yet seems to know
what I need to hear.

Move.

Wait.

Listen.

Begin again.

The wind does not argue
with the tree.

It moves around it.

The river does not defeat
the stone by shouting.

It returns.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until the stone
has changed shape.

So I followed
the thread of stress
through the knot
of frustration.

I pinched it.

I held it.

I turned it gently.

And slowly—

slowly—

the knot loosened.

The world yielded
one small corner
to my hands.

And from somewhere
deep within me
came the old declaration:

I can do this.

Yes.

I can do this.

Moving on.

Moving on.

Not because
everything is finished,

but because
something has begun
to become whole.

Isn’t this
how life itself works?

The seed does not become
the tree in one morning.

The river does not carve
the mountain in one afternoon.

The dawn does not illuminate
the whole earth
at once.

And I—

why should I demand
of myself
what even nature
does not demand?

One-third success.

One repaired thing.

One sentence written.

One garden watered.

One burden lifted.

One kindness offered.

Enough.

Enough to call
the day blessed.

Enough to sleep.

Enough to wake again.

Enough to begin.

And if—

in the middle
of the mission—

my breath should stop?

What then?

The work will remain.

The world will continue.

The morning sun
will rise without me.

The birds
will sing without me.

The garden
will grow without me.

The wind
will continue whispering
through the leaves.

Someone else
will lift the tool.

Someone else
will tighten the screw.

Someone else
will finish the sentence
I began.

And perhaps
this is oneness—

not completion,

but continuity.

Not possessing
the work,

but participating in it.

My hands are temporary.

The work is not.

My breath is temporary.

The movement is not.

My little life
is one stroke
in the great handwriting
of the world.

I write.

I stop.

The sentence continues.

Happiness and sadness
arrive together.

Two wings
of the same bird.

Why should I separate them?

Let joy sit beside sorrow.

Let sorrow drink
from the same cup
as joy.

Let them travel together
through the chambers
of my heart.

For a life without sorrow
would become
a shallow river,

and a life without joy
would forget
why the river moves.

I do not ask
for a painless life.

I ask for a meaningful one.

Give me work.

Give me love.

Give me difficulty
that makes me stronger.

Give me failure
that teaches me humility.

Give me success
small enough
to keep me grateful.

Give me another morning
in which I can say:

Begin.

So I walk—

the road of unknown clouds.

No map is finished.

No horizon
has signed its name.

Tomorrow
keeps its face hidden.

Still—

I walk.

At dusk
I stand beneath
the crape myrtle,

and the flowers
seem to hold
little drops of honey.

I bend closer.

I listen.

The ordinary world
is full of sweetness
for those willing
to notice it.

Then above me—

the powerline hums,

ten thousand volts
singing its dangerous song
against the evening sky.

Purple light gathers.

The trees darken.

The air becomes
almost electric.

And I stand there—

a foolish poet,

an aging worker,

a man who knows
he cannot control
the storm,

yet refuses
to stop looking
at the sky.

Then the storm comes.

Let it come.

Let the clouds gather.

Let the rain strike
the roof.

Let the wind bend
the trees.

I will fly through it
like a foolish albatross,

wings wide,

heart exposed,

refusing to believe
that the sky ends
at the edge of weather.

For I have learned:

The storm is movement.

The wind is breath.

Resistance is life.

Labor is prayer.

And creation
is one of the ways
the human soul says:

I am still here.

My hands are aging.

I know it.

They tremble sometimes.

They tire sooner.

They carry the history
of all the things
they have touched.

Tools.

Wood.

Soil.

Books.

Bread.

Faces.

A child’s hand.

A friend’s shoulder.

A broken thing.

A beautiful thing.

A thing
that needed fixing.

These hands
have not been perfect.

But they have worked.

And perhaps
that is enough.

Every wrinkle
is a line of labor.

Every scar
is a paragraph.

Every tired muscle
is a witness.

Every morning
is another invitation:

Begin.

Begin again.

Begin with what is near.

Begin with what is broken.

Begin with what resists you.

Begin with the smallest thing.

Begin with the screw.

Begin with the seed.

Begin with the word.

Begin with love.

And if one day
someone asks:

Why did you keep working?

Why did you keep making?

Why did you rise
when your body wanted rest?

Why did you follow
the butterfly thought
at three in the morning?

Why did you spend
five hours
to replace one toilet?

I will answer:

Because absent labor,

I fade away.

Without creation,

I dissolve.

Without resistance,

I lose the edge
of being alive.

Without emotion,

the world becomes thin.

But when I work—

I become.

When I make—

I remember.

When I struggle—

I awaken.

When I finish
one small task—

I rise.

And when I cannot finish—

I leave something
for tomorrow.

That, too, is life.

That, too, is faith.

That, too, is resurrection.

So let tomorrow come.

Let it bring
its stubborn screws,

its leaking pipes,

its unfinished rooms,

its gardens,

its poems,

its anxieties,

its butterflies,

its storms,

its impossible tasks.

I will meet it
with these hands.

These aging hands.

These imperfect hands.

These human hands.

And when finally
they become still,

let the work continue.

Let the garden grow.

Let the poem travel.

Let another hand
take up the tool.

Let another heart
discover the joy
of beginning.

Let the great ocean
receive my little wave.

For I was never
the whole sea.

I was only
one moving part of it—

one breath,

one worker,

one maker,

one pilgrim,

one foolish albatross
beneath the enormous sky.

And still—

while I breathe,

while I work,

while I create,

while I struggle,

while I finish
one small thing,

I am here.

I am alive.

I am becoming.

I am not finished.

Therefore—

I work.

I make.

I write.

I plant.

I repair.

I love.

I begin again.

Absent labor, I fade away—
but in the work of living,
I rise.

— TaeHun Yoon, August 2026