—after Madeline Cravens

Not the labor of wages but the labor of care, 
a labor like cooking, its rhythm and fragrance, 
not the labor of timesheets but the labor 
of plants, of dirt against skin and denim knees 
tearing, not the labor of hours but that of forever, 
the labor of chopping and planting and caring, 
candles lit at the table, our mouths and eyes 
dancing, not the labor of measure but the labor 
of plenty, not the labor of force but of choice, 
a labor of love like that of long marriage, its soil 
and candles and denim with wrinkles, the labor 
of water, that bountiful giver, not the labor of war 
but the labor of meetings, our work to convene them, 
and gather in greeting, not the labor of theft but 
the labor of healing, the generous labor of witness 
and sharing, not the labor of shifts but the labor 
of feeling, the labor of carrying this infant within me, 
his hiccups and shifting, the labor of writing a poem 
as a letter, a letter worth sealing, then waiting 
to mail it, the labor of reading, of birth and 
of teaching, the labor of faith in what we’re creating, 
the labor of waiting and trying and giving.