π§πΌ ππ² πΌπ³ π¨ππ² (by
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost
out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that
element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with
massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to
move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and
again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields
to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags
along,
who stand in the line and haul in
their places,
who are not parlor generals and field
deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the
fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as
mud.
Botched, it smears the hands,
crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and
evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in
museums
but you know they were made to be
used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
