The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes
almost out of sight. They seem
to become natives of that
element, the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
an ox to a heavy cart, who pull like
water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck
to move things forward, who do what
has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field
deserters but move in a common
rhythm when the food must come
in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles
to dust. But the thing worth doing
well done has a shape that satisfies,
clean and evident. Greek amphoras
for wine or oil, Hopi vases that held corn,
are put in museums but you know
they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
Marge Piercy from Circles on the Water
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