On Lazy Days, a poem

I don’t do well with lazy days.
The slouching silhouette of guilt
That lurks down the dark alley
Of all that idleness haunts even
My best efforts at languid luxury.
The rarest lazy day of all
Never brought the spender
Gilded, glorious works of art
Or sonorous symphonies celebrated
Or mysteries uncovered
Or any of these deepest longings
Of my heart that only blood and sweat
And unwept tears can buy.
Rather than spend them instead I’d invest
And live a fecund prodigal
Off the burgeoning interest of these
Unspent lazy days.
              And so I have, and do,
Until the Holy Hand of the Uncreated Word
Comes settling to rest
Gentle and warm to still my every striving.
Not even Adam in Paradise, it seems to say,
Had to earn his unproductive Sabbath.
His only duty, on the first day of the rest of his life
Was to enjoy a perfect precious day off.