Monday, October 17, 2011

Domesticated Bliss

She stares with ill-disguised sympathy
at my work-worn hands fumbling for the right change.
I return her gaze with ease
as meticulously manicured fingers accept politely
two quarters, a dime and three pennies

A labor of love is not drudgery
though, at the glance of a passer-by
it consists of mundane and modest task.
There is more to domestication than meets the eye
offering a wealthy threshold for which I dare not ask

I will not judge you in your platinum halo
your painted eyes and stiletto stance
if you return the same.
How can I tell you that garden-soil is not dirt
and to dig in it is no labor of shame?

…but rather a work of unrequited wonder
as seed sprouts producing fruit and bloom
and beauty; the reward of toil.
Soon earth reclaims its solemn dues
and life returns to soil

Outside these walls of humble bliss
awaits a bombardment of decorated dust,
a ceaseless, bullish quandary
I return to quiet toil in thankfulness
amongst shovels, pots, pans and laundry

Janet

Okay, I confess…
It is with deflated enthusiasm with which I survey
The after-math of a week-end…
But I determine to find within its squalor, bliss!

2 comments:

  1. A lot can be learned by looking at someone's hands. Cops always watch hands because it's the hands that can hurt you. But work hardened hands are the ones I'm drawn to. They are the ones that meet you halfway in a handshake, that are held out in fellowship and offered in help. There is only pride in a working hand.

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  2. Mike, your comment makes me think you could write a beautiful poem on hands. Much spoken in few words.
    Thank-you.

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