Outdone

My rakes’ tongs bend and flip.

The leaves fly up and cast down.

I work till my hands burn

With a pause the rake is taken –

And in three rough strokes

you have done what I could only do in nine.

Dear God, you, you were meant for this!

And I, your rib, outdone

admire it, your work, your curse!

Oh, to toil like a man,

Even this exertion makes my hips sway.

I only know desires and labor:

Receiving, bearing, moaning.

I give in.

 

 

 

 

 

7 comments

  1. ha! well that is a heated topic. JB gets it and I don’t know if I have much more to say. I would love to but I need to think about it. If I come up with something would you like me to email it to you?

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