Nothing beats it —
sitting down
and trying on
a piece of work
as if it were a
stole, or stolen;

trying to puzzle through
toward a kind of
satisfaction — at least
to the point where
abandonment or
chucking it away
seems a failure;

if it had been stolen
like a shawl or a wrap
this would be the point
where it’s flung from
the shoulder to the wet earth;

where work begins and ends
with a drenching, steady
rain;

instead release comes —
wiping hands,
brushing old and new dirt
from older and creakier knees
is part of work — is in fact
all the Work
made concrete,
made visible;

as if flitting through the streets
after the Work is done
in rain — drenching rain,
steady rain — seems an option;

the knees may give out
and the body of course
will fall and fail but the Work
will be finished,
as much as it
ever was;

then may come
words like
this is mine,
this is me,
and you may lift
your scrawny neck
to the sky as it spills
a last full rain,
and be done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T