expectations on man
Movement of Grass, Eastern Shores, Virginia © Jim Korpi
If I were a carpenter,
With calloused hands
And all to be expected of a man,
Would you still love me?
My grave and allotted soil
Will know only what I provide.
It asks not what I was, or what I am
But only for me to stay.
Am I not like the tree?
Whose limbs lose the burden
Of yesterday’s season, rest,
And birth new form.
The me who has been
Will no longer be.
Freed from the worldly,
I return. Reborn.
Naked, I hold no instruments
Of art nor the tyranny of trade.
I ask only for the breast
To feed me
And the warm comforting calm.
