Work to be Done
It is not quite frost.
Dew is heavy on the fields.
The fog has not quite lifted.
The windows are misted
as you fix breakfast. Simple fare,
bacon and eggs. Fuel.
There is work to be done.
Your mantra for the day.
Beginning with the mere act of waking,
your biggest battle each day,
to believe you are worthy of the effort,
the devil within fighting with the truth
while your body lies still, awaiting the outcome.
It is always thus.
And the outcome is assured.
Truth wins. Your feet hit the floor
with a satisfying thud.
the rout has begun.
There is work to be done,
and it is your savior,
that sense of responsibility nailed into you
by mother and father and generations before them.
Rising from the grave they lead you still
and push you forward.
There are people who matter who depend on you
and the promises you have made.
Each promise a cow prod that moves you forward,
those you save, saving you.
There is work to do.
Souls to seek. Truth to find.
Dark corners to clean out.
Comfort to be offered,
and strangely found in the work.
Your body is fed.
The fog has lifted.
It is time to go.
fueled by bacon and prayer and two cups of coffee,
there is work to be done.
About this poem
I seriously doubt the people who I help understand how much they help me.
The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Villiage near Pittsfield, MA.