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.