Oh, how I long for a labor day now,
Shoveling snow or pushing a plow.
Sweat on my brow.
Never wondering why, just how.
All my muscles in rhythmic motion,
The summer sun heat rising from the fields like an ocean.
Cold well water never tasted so sweet,
Or my sun warmed bread and meat.
Subtly, as the day wore on,
Sensing the changes from dusk till dawn.
Aching muscles succumb to sweet sleep,
And rise refreshed, the day to repeat.
Isolated in conditioned cocoons,
I wander in cyberspace rooms.
Exercising only my eyes, wrist and fingers,
Viewing narrow vistas, my mind lingers.
To those carefree days of youth,
Where hard work lent a sense of truth.
And, no matter the weather, my mind was free,
Hard work bred honesty and strength in me.
And labor, the curse of the masses,
Becomes more appealing, as time passes.
I'm free from labor, in my own way,
But I still long for a labor day.
Copyright 1999 (c) Ronald W. Hull