Laboring hands

Not all poetry is written

Some poems are
            welded with fire
            or carved from fine wood

Some poems are formed
            through chips, cracks, and erosion

A laboring mind rests
long enough to see, feel, and understand
the abundant poetry created by hands, laboring

            sipping tea once rooted in rich soil, harvested by strong hands,
                        sun-leathered and earth-stained

            gliding a hand along a vintage dresser, carved by a sculptor of strong wood

            listening to soft strums of a guitar crafted by a third-generation artisan

            stepping across a sidewalk that holds the salt from a bricklayer’s sweat

            crossing a park carpeted in green, cut weekly by a man who tends to brown spots
                        while he daydreams

            reading poetry written by evening poets, who spend their days laboring
                        whose words contain their spirit and sweat

Poetry is not a vocation
            Poetry is a soul’s expression

I’ve had this post on my mind for a few months, although I wasn’t sure what the final product would look like. I never do until I begin to write. Labor Day weekend was the motivation I needed to bring these acknowledging words to life. The idea of writing about those who build, create, and beautify (with their bodies, hands, and minds) appeared with the merging of three thoughts: appreciating the hardworking world moving quickly around me, this song*, and thinking about my parents. My dad was a concrete man, and my mom built a life for herself using her strong hands. Great gratitude to those who quietly improve this world with their laboring hands.