A Sick Day

The world moves without me
beyond the window’s quiet frame;
the wind bends branches, stirs the leaves,
and whispers none to blame.

Here, still and tired, I lay,
the body's work under repair; 
no tasks to chase, no field to tend,
but only rest and air.

The earth, I know, will wait—
its soil unchanged, its rivers sure.
This day is given not for loss,
but simply to endure.