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Work

Work.
Toil.
The pain I put in the ground.
For such a precious thing.
Corn. 
The family enjoys their meal.
They plant their leftover kernels.
And wait for me to tend to them.
Work. 
An endless cycle in which happiness is born.


©Demand4poetry
21 February 2013

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013




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Date: 3/20/2013 12:47:00 PM
I like the old Ink Spots recording - "I'd work Ifn I could find any pleasure in it." Regards, daver
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