A Necessary Labor

We've wondered here before
for many suns have set
behind these darkening hills
(passing clouds catch fire)

Nature mourns quietly,
trees timber with heavy thuds
and heavy boots dig the dirt
(axes attack wood flesh)

We pack wheelbarrows full,
white knuckles against the frigid sky
stomachs grieving for forgotten lunch
(worn cracked hands, aching)

And way back home
Mama's love quilts us
and her soup melts us
(thick cut carrots and dirty faces)

Talk of the hills ensue
about our dirt-caked clothes
about the quiet morning sun
(flannel jackets hung on hooks)

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